The Bride Price II
by sian22
Summary: In which the new King of Rohan rashly makes a boast and faces the greatest threat to his well-being and happiness yet: two determined Princes of Dol Amroth. Sequel to the Bride Price. Can Éomer accept that he's lost his heart? Will Lothiriel be swayed by an Emperor? A tale of pining, watery ritual and horseshoes.
1. Chapter 1

**_T.A. September 3020  
_**.**_  
_**.

_ "Imrahil Prince of Dol Amroth requests the pleasure of your company at the yearly festival of…."_

The script was elegant, all swirling flourishes and arabesques dancing in neatly ordered lines. From the parchment's heavy weight and the exotic colour of the ink, Éomer, King of Rohan, had no doubt at all that the missive was from Dol Amroth's noble Prince. He frowned in concentration, slowly translating in his head the formal form of Sindarin. Some correspondence a King wished to keep all to himself but _Béma's horn_ the words were convolute.

Brow furrowed in puzzlement he absently tugged on and laced his boots, closed the bedroom door behind and wandered out into the hall. Why in Arda would the Belfalas folk hold a whole ceremony for the naming of a fish? He peered a little closer at the faintly seawind-scented page. Why the event went on for days?! Naming it. Tagging it. Releasing it to be caught again next year. Surely the odds of a soul actually catching the hapless thing were nigh impossible? At least burning a king-shaped sheaf of wheat as they did in Minas Tirith (to his mind but little less outlandish) had the virtue of being connected to the harvest. But truly these Gondorians had far too much time at leisure if they could concoct so many pointless days-long rituals. Haglimond was blessedly straightforward. A day of ceremony and literal horse trading. A night of boasting and toasting. Good food and even better ale to foster fellowship and rivalry. Simple. A man could sink his energies into that. Not laying hands on some slimy, slippery shape.

Bemused but intrigued, Éomer scratched at his beard thoughtfully as he tiptoed down the still quiet hall and ducked out the great oak door below Meduseld's gold lintel. He turned his face up to the climbing autumn sun. It was the morning after Haglimond's night before. Per his usual habit Éomer was up early with the dawn, pitying the poor lads who stood on guard. Every last Rider in the city would be nursing a pounding head that morn after a night of raucous songs and bolder boasts, hours of boisterous dancing. Though the pair who stood before the door looked red-eyed and bleary (and one as white as Starkhorn's upper slopes) the new recruits seemed alert enough. Hungover. Suffering. Waiting for the exuberant sunshine in the bright and gallant sky to kill them. But still determined to do proud their Éored.

A King could be justly proud of such dedicated men.

"Good morrow." The guards snapped to attention and he nodded just slightly carefully himself, exchanging a few pleasantries and moving on before they could notice the red-rims around _his_ eyes. Or the slightly ashen hue of his skin below the tan.

_Béma_ what a party!

The icy coldness of the water in the back rainbarrel had been a godsend. It had done much to shock the puffiness from his face. If not the more pernicious memories from his brain.

It was all Erkenbrand's fault, he thought. The Marshal's gracious gift- _Uskebeaghe, _the finest the Westfold had to offer-had been strong and almost voluptuously smooth, loosening his tongue and his better judgement. Easy enough for Théodred to have stood before the rowdy throng and boasted he'd be clean-shaven another year, but he, Éomer-King, had had no inkling of what he might say until he actually arose.

The thunderous and hopeful roar, the whistles and teeth-rattling pounding on tables and flagstones after his first careful, throat-clearing, cough had left little room for doubt.

And he had not let them down.

Before next Haglimond Rohan would have a Queen.

_Valar_.

Éomer still could not quite believe he'd said it. Rash. Presumptuous. Possibly even insane_, _but a foal once dropped _has_ to stand as Dúnhere would say. Done was done. And although he'd not had leisure to examine the concept critically, it was necessary and appropriate. Thirty was not too old be unmarried. Thirty-one however….

Descending the stone steps one by one, he looked out over the slumbering city to the Folde's tawny, new shorn fields, the wider plains of the West Enmet. The richer pasturage and farmland at the White Mountains feet ensured that Aldburg and Harrowdale and most of the settlements near to hand were on their feet again. In eighteen months swift reparations had been made, but not every moment had been peaceful: Dunlendings had harried the Gap of Rohan, Southrons and Orcs the Ephel Duath. At first he'd had no time to think of settling down, but then in the sweet summer days around his sister's wedding a certain restlessness had emerged. An unsettledness. As if something centrally important was lacking in his world.

(It could have nothing-_nothing_-to do with that deceitful Princess to whom he'd lost a bet. The letters brought fortnightly by Minas Tirith's messenger were merely a formal courtesy. They were family now. Of course he wished to know more of his sister's newfound kin. The weeks since Éowyn 's wedding had passed as quickly as a duster in dry fields.)

Éomer sighed and turned automatically for one of his favourite vantage points. The carven benches laid by Thengel Thrice-Renowned at the Hall's east foot would be warm and he had left his cloak. He strode quickly, letters shoved safely into his belt, long legs eating up the stone, but soon he came to a disappointed stop. They were occupied. A rider graced each one; passed out on his back and snoring loud enough to rouse the dead.

_Béma_. From the soft down on their cheeks and the size of the drinking horns upended on the stone it had been their first boasting night. 'Twas likely not the last time they'd find a horn too deep, but best to not to leave them solely to fortune's whim. He turned the first on his side and then the other; noting with amused surprise the red mustache of Elfhelm's youngest. Heagrim. Newly spurred and now christened by his fellows.

_Apple doesn't fall from the tree_, he grinned to himself, before doubling back and heading for the greensward instead. Its neat grass held two long tables and lots of space. As he came closer he spied a dark head that stood out like a corey amidst the golden hawks. His habitually early-rising brother-in-law was also up.

_Excellent_. Mayhap Faramir could enlighten him on his Uncle's invitation.

Éomer stopped just beyond the man's leather-covered shoulder and waited. As expected, his arrival had been marked. Faramir turned and smiled.

"Éomer, well met! Please. Join me." Room was quickly made on the weathered wooden bench and Faramir reached to obligingly pour a second tankard of breakfast ale from the jug that sat temptingly upon the tabletop.

The young King accepted it with alacrity. The air smelt of apples, sharp and crisp; the sun had begun to be invigorating rather than insulting. Food might wait but he had a mighty thirst.

"Can you help me, Brother?" Éomer asked, taking a cautious gulp or two, then more when his stomach raised no protest. "Pray tell, why do the Princes of Dol Amroth name a King of Fish? It seems a daft tradition. Even by your people's standards."

The jab was ignored with a grin and shake of head. Faramir, bright-eyed and obviously none the worse for wear, took a largish gulp of his own and tilted his head in puzzlement. "They don't do that. At harvest they bless the fleet. Pour wine into the water to give thanks to Ulmo. Scatter flowers for Uinen to calm the waves and bread for Ossë to call fair winds."

Éomer blinked in surprise. "They do? But I had a letter?"

Reluctantly he pulled the first missive out. The blue wax was sealed with the royal house's graceful leaping dolphin. It looked correct: he knew it from the dozen others that lay well hidden from prying eyes below his braies and socks.

"An invitation from your Uncle. I fear cannot take the time away but it was kindly done. In fact I had two," he explained, pulling the second from his tunic. "His seneschal also wrote. You mentioned the messengers were delayed by the storm. Both arrived at once."

"May I see that?" Faramir frowned and held out his hand for the first letter, scanned it quickly, turning the pages over carefully before he politely asked for the second. Éomer regarded the process anxiously. How could they not be genuine? And if they were not what did that mean for the third left back in his room? Tucked away and kept to savour in the private quiet of the later eve like a particularly heady mead.

"The seals are correct."

Éomer flushed, suddenly aware he sounded far more ruffled by then he should. "They are," agreed Faramir as he passed the first letter back. "This is Amrothos' handwriting. And _this_," the other letter was held beside, "is Erchirion's." He chuckled and slowly shook his head. "_King of Fish_. It's an awfully audacious trick to pull even for those rogues. Uncle would be furious if he knew."

_If_. Éomer tried and failed to imagine a response that would not cause a diplomatic incident. Then another thought occurred. "You do not appear surprised?"

"No indeed. I suspect as you are now kin they feel obliged to 'break you in'. Some of my more vexing memories of Dol Amroth's palace involve those two. Each as bad as the other and quite unable to resist a jest." Faramir's usual wry half smile tripped and fell into a full on grin. "Boromir and I, as eldest, were expected to keep an eye on the younger ones. I quickly learned that in that pernicious battle my brother was often right."

"How so?"

"The only thing that worked was to sit on them!"

_Damn and blast_. The young king stared long at the offending forgeries before tossing the last of the tankard back.

He'd sit on them all right. Their trick meant he wasn't invited to Dol Amroth after all.  
.

~~~000~~~  
.

Hours later, when the sun had climbed high enough to reach Starkhorn's scarlet painted vales, this unpalatable development was much on Éomer's mind as he rode by his sister's side.

They were on a private errand, heading up into the mountains to revive a tradition abandoned in Théoden's decline: the autumn offering. A gift of the first wheat and barley cut at harvest for _Erce;_ thanks for the blessing of her bounty and promise to steward it well. The little shrine they sought lay just above a sparkling stream that fell straight down to join Snowbourn's noisy rush.

A man could do poorer than to be ahorse on such a glorious afternoon. The air was fresh and calm, the warm light gilding the stands of ash and beech with fall's yellow cloak. Beside him, Éowyn was also all of gold. Her crown of magnificent hair hung loose about her shoulders. Her smile was free and unfettered; patting Windfola when he dropped back to pick his way around a patch of pale brown mud; laughing at Firefoot as he daintily lifted his hocks high to keep them clean.

And she was singing. His watchful, serious, _composed_ sister was serenading the entire woods and their trailing guard with her slightly ambitious alto.

Again.

It was wondrous, and quite magical, and positively maddening.

And had not stopped since mid-summer's festivities.

"Must you?" he groused, reining in so that she could pull abreast.

"Must I what?" asked Éowyn, reaching to shift a loose wheatsheaf tied to Windola's saddlepack.

"Sing so all the time," he answered. "You were trying enough when you were merely infatuated. This honeymoon phase. All happy sighs and grins and madrigals. It is practically ridiculous."

Éowyn, wreathed in wedded bliss, was unruffled by this display of pique. She left off her song and a wagged a finger. "You, brother dear, are jealous."

"I am not."

"Oh yes you are. And more prickly than a angry bear with it." She grinned across the gulf between them until he flushed from cheeks to brow. "You should try it for yourself."

"When would I find the time?" he protested tightly. "I have helped with your own wedding. Fought two battles in the Sea of Nurn with Aragorn. Made peace with the Dunlending tribes and toured from the Adorn to Mering Stream. I have hardly been in Edoras. And besides," he added, sounding defensive enough to himself, "a suitable bride is not something you go down to the street market and rustle up."

"Suitable?!" His sister's fair brows raised. "Now you sound like Faramir's seneschal. There are any number of 'suitable' lasses to be Riders' brides but only one who will move your heart and head. Be truly equal as your Queen."

Trust his 'Wyn to reach in and pluck at the root of the problem. A Queen. He'd come to almost hate the term. At every village square in every settlement across the Wold well-meaning goodwives asked him when one would bless the Hall. Riders solemnly toasted his virility. Local lords positively thrust their daughters into his hands. Even Elfhelm, normally the most easy-going of his Marshals, had enquired when his King would get off the pot and finally make up his mind.

(The resulting blow _could_ have knocked the older Rider's helmet off. He'd blocked it rather easily.)

Éomer ground his teeth but forebore an answer. It felt as if entire the Kingdom worried he'd be offed at any moment leaving them without an heir. The implied fragility of his person was insulting. And frustrating. All of this focus on procreation was, a night's intemperance aside, why he'd made that blasted boast.

To stop the endless blathering.

(_Well, almost certainly. Or probably. Perhaps maybe._ _Bloody hell_.)

Sighing heavily he ignored Éowyn 's quizzical look and gave Firefoot more rein, let the stallion have his head as the now rocky path rose up at their feet. They passed a small cairn and then another wreathed in a tumble of blue penstemon and summer hops.

"For fruitfulness," Éowyn observed, reaching down to touch the fronds for luck.

"Not mine."

They rode on in silence, the small storm cloud of his disgruntlement and the faithfully watching guards following on behind. Thankfully their journey's end was near. The trail to the meadow was well worn by generations of Rohirrim and below the high scudding clouds it finally flattened out; opened into a perfect hanging meadow. They kneed their mounts into a canter, racing across the slope, reveling in the scent of thyme crushed beneath their hooves until they pulled up beside a small niche carved into the pale grey rock.

The ceremony was brief enough. Heads bowed, ancient words of thanks were spoken. The fence of grain was laid below; its warm musty smell mingling with the brightness of the herbs. While the horses cropped the short speargrass, Éomer slaked his thirst in a stream, turned at the sound of laughter once again.

Windfola was entertaining his mistress and the men, nudging her pocket for a treat, stamping and shaking his mane, whinnying when pushed away. Éowyn, her own tresses lifted by the breeze, bright spots of colour staining her ruddy cheeks, scolded his gluttony and at last produced the carrot. After a month of sunny days spent with Faramir at Théngel's hunting lodge her nose was dusted with tiny freckles. The sight of them made his heart pinch.

Here was no duty-burdened ghost, skin frost white below grave, listless eyes. How could he begrudge her any single thing?

Taking up Firefoot's reins, Éomer waited for the guards to do the same, and then drew close, regret lodged like a stone upon his chest. "Éowyn ?"

"Mhmm."

He caught her blue-grey gaze. "I am sorry. I did not mean to sound so churlish. You are obviously very well and very, very happy. It truly makes me glad."

"I know," she smiled softly as he reached to clasp her hand. "After shadow I have found my sun."

He nodded. A dark-haired, fair-skinned Gondorian one, but her sun nonetheless. "You are blessed to have someone to share your life."

"I am," she nodded, and now a rose-gold tint crept up her cheeks to join the twinkle in her eyes. "Marriage has much to recommend it."

_Did she..? Mean _that_?_ But s_urely not?_!

Éowyn giggled gaily as his cheeks flamed and he suddenly ducked his head. "I wouldn't know."

"Oh yes you would!"

She burst out laughing at the look of horror on his face. _His little sister! Joking about swiving! Béma's_ bollocks, it felt as if even his hair was turning red!

Éomer could not decide which was the more embarrassing- Éowyn's sly giggles or Faramir's look of hunger when she walked into the room. The newlyweds seemed to be endlessly on holiday. A month alone together after midsummer had led to the second ceremony in Minas Tirith. Another month of leave. And now Haglimond. He rather hoped the darker smudges below her merry eyes were due to travelling. The morning ritual of her Steward waking her up seemed to take an unconscionable amount of time.

He squared his shoulders and dove into the fray. "The example set by your new husband is a difficult one to follow. Tea personally delivered to your bedside every morning. Elaborate compliments. If I did not know he was a truly valiant soldier I'd have thought he was a bard."

Éowyn gave a little shrug. "That is just Faramir. Somewhere between him and indifferent there is a balance."

"Oh ho!" he cried for this time she was the one to flush. "There is a downside?"

"I never seem to win an argument."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Serves you right, sister dear! Will you stamp your feet or pout?"

"No..I.." Her words trailed off before she fixed him with a baleful glare. "Éomer-Cyning you take that back.! I do not stamp! Or pout!"

"Oh no. Never," he teased, remembering spectacular childhood fireworks. "Only when Grandmother made you sit and knit. He'll let you win a few if he knows what's good for him."

"And what would you know of wives and husbands?"

"I've seen Erkenbrand and Cristeyn. And Elfhelm and Hilde," he answered quickly. Did she really think him so oblivious? "They seem to rub along well enough."

"True." Éowyn inclined her head. "I believe Faramir's linguistic precision comes from the Hurin side. It is not a Dol Amroth family trait to argue all the time."

Béma _that _name. Must everyone mention the principality all day long? Like a gopher from a hole it had popped up again. And as much as he might admit to himself the young Princess was difficult get off his mind, talking to his sister felt a bit like being in a wheat maze.

All routes led back to one.

He rolled his eyes "The side of grinning lunatics. I pity the man who has to deal with her elder brothers."

Éowyn's mouth quirked. "There is a man in Middle-Earth you fear?"

"Of course not! It's just…"

"What?"

"They are difficult to ignore," he admitted after a lengthy pause and then groaned aloud at Éowyn's beaming smile. She had just tricked him into admitting how much Lothíriel was on his mind! _Bloody hell_. There was nothing to it. _Nothing_. Just keeping up their friendly discourse on the ancient arts of fermentation.

Éomer turned to fiddle with the now empty saddle pack while his sister waited hands on hips. It was a pose he knew meant she'd not be easily deterred.

"What do you think of her?"

"What do I think of who?"

Éowyn rolled her eyes. "Lothíriel of course."

"A conniving minx who I clearly cannot trust," he said, slapping the dust off his riding gloves. "First she cajoles me into a bet on false pretenses. Then she sets the most embarrassing price she can find," he growled, remembering the agony of standing out amidst the dancers in Meduseld, nervous sweat pouring down his back.

The cheek! Lothíriel had swooped in like a hawk and taken advantage of his weakness. "I'll not partner with her again."

"Really? Are you sure it isn't simply that you never like to lose? Even draughts sent you into sulks." Éowyn swung up into her own saddle and eyed him sidelong. "Faramir and I have been invited for a visit."

"Where?"

"Dol Amroth."

_Again that name!_ His sweetly ferocious little sister was angling for a reaction but the budding diplomat in him held fast. "Excellent."

"We just might journey the week after next. It is always quiet here when the longer nights set in."

Oh that was unfair. _He _was facing his first Yule without her and _she_ was traipsing in a dreamy haze across the countryside. Éomer set his teeth. "Absolutely. A stinking fish market embroidered with cutthroats and charlatans will be much more fun."

"Only down the docks." Éowyn bit her lip. "I could ask Imrahil for an invite for you?" she offered as she wheeled Windfola around to set the falling sun at their backs.

"I have no need of formal invitations," he huffed but then paused. Her tone held nothing of mockery. Her eyes were darker blue and serious. Did she mean it? Was Éowyn actually encouraging him? Chagrined that he would be on his own or thinking of his boast? Succumbing to a newlywed's certainty that all should be in their state?

He forced himself to loosen his fingers on the reins. Certainly spending time in Belfalas would be far from hardship. Dol Amroth's Prince was urbane and welcoming. Its Princess was surprisingly easy to talk to. Light in his arms at the wedding dance. Beguiling with her fine elegant features and dark raven hair. And her rapier wit.

Altogether bracing and refreshing compared to the pretty and pallid girls vying for his attention.

Perhaps he owed her another chance.

He motioned to the guards to fall in behind. "If the fall auctions go swiftly," he said, "I may join you there. 'Twil be good for trade."

Éowyn 's chin snapped up and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "No other reason?" she asked quickly, intent as a cat about to pounce.

_Bema_. He knew to not let even a Balrog drag out the truth. They would be talking 'Queenliness' all the way back down.

"The grape harvest will be just past. I have promised to haggle with Imrahil for more cases. He invited me to tour the latest," Éomer's tongue sought the unfamiliar word, "pressing."

"Don't tell me you are developing a taste for wine?!"

_Enough_. Éomer cast a last look about the meadow, leaned forward in the saddle and urged Firefoot into a steady gait. Before the stallion pulled away, he turned to let fly a parting shot.

"The yellow stuff from Faramir mother's estate almost has a head on it."

.

~~~000~~~

,

Elfhelm son of Elfgrim, Third Marshal of the Mark, leaned a shoulder against a soaring pillar in Meduseld's lofty hall and reflected on how much the same one Yule could be to the next.

The heavy work and weather were expected. Wolves and wind howled in the midwinter dark. Endless chores kept man and beast hale the season through. Snowy gales dumped snow like whitewash over every roof and byre. They were a constant, like his Hilde's potent spice cake or the bitter juniper of Yuletide beer. Familiar and comforting in the natural order of things.

The spectacle of another pining scion of Éomund he hadn't thought to see again. Last year Éowyn had drifted about the hall like an ethereal and love-drunken ghost, barely avoiding dogs and men, entirely caught up in her coming nuptials. This year, Éomer did not drift so much as stalk; restless and unable to settle any single thing; barging through drifts of snow and cooped up Riders with equal force.

It was becoming a hazard to them all.

"_Béma's_ bloody bollocks! Cannot a man walk in his own home! Get this lot out of my way!"

Éomer irascibly shoved a length of pale hose from off his face, shook his head like a sodden dog to dislodge the detritus of the washing line and scowled at the averted eyes around.

Braies had flown everywhere. They'd landed on seats and rushes. Tapestries and tables. And his sheathed longsword.

Not a man amongst them had the courage to crack a smile.

"Sire. my apologies!" stammered the blushing servant girl who plucked up the damp cloths as quickly as she could. "It is washing day and far too cold to hang it out of doors. Your smallclothes would freeze like ice."

Somewhere beyond the desultorily smoking hearth an errant titter was quickly stilled. Elfhelm reluctantly heaved a sigh. The planned distractions were having little positive affect. Hunting was poor. Sword practice lasted not long enough. Exercising the horses was a brief affair. It only made matters worse that it was cold as a stone troll's balls outside. Éomer rattled about the Golden Hall with as much frustration as he had Edoras's stocks.

It was like watching a captive lion pace. One with a thorn named Lothíriel stuck beneath his tawny hide.

Éomer strode across the flagstone floor and mounted the dais steps; flung himself into the King's great gilded seat, refusing all offers of food and drink. Somehow the morning's brief interlude on Firefoot had only made his temper worse. Ranulf, their long suffering scribe, tried to do his best; bowing politely and offering up something to pass the time.

"Sire, if I might interject. There is your unfinished correspondence. A letter from the Lady of Ithilien and one from Prince Faramir. And another from King Elessar."

The bundle of proffered parchments was glared at with some force. "All I do these days is read! My eyes will hardly make out my foes."

"That does not appear to trouble the Steward or his King," muttered Ranulf before he could think better of his words.

The result was quite immediate. "Don't remind me of the man who has captured my little sister!"

_Béma_. The whole hall winced in sympathy. It was Éomer's first Yule without Éowyn. Of course he was missing her. And thinking about the invitation to Minas Tirith he had mulishly turned down. Prince Imrahil had been at pains to note all his family would be there yet Éomer had refused, citing a need to oversee the midwinter festivities. But now the days of feasting and remembrance were just past. Yuletide was done and _æftera ġéola_ was coming on. There was no need to linger.

Elfhelm scratched his red-gold beard and pondered what to do. The words of old king Gram were all too true. Love and honour-no yoked pair were more likely to cause misunderstanding and inconvenience. Combine them with pride and the affect could be positively lethal.

He fingered his own letter crumpled in his tunic pocket. "_Pray get him here anyway you can_," it read and it appeared the time was now.

One didn't refuse a Queen. Especially a half-elven one who knew a very great deal about waiting.

He noisily cleared his throat and caught Ranulf's rheumy eye. The older man nodded and bravely faced the King again. "My liege?"

Éomer-King slumped dejectedly in his chair. "What is it?"

"It transpires that I did process your request of earlier this fall."

A bored blond eyebrow quirked. "Which one?"

"To assemble a list of eligible prospects for your consort."

Éomer sat straight up. His scribe pulled a new scroll and a handful of painted miniatures from a battered leather satchel. "I made discreet enquiries of course. There are several who might be suitable. Of the nobility and of marriageable age."

Ranulf passed a small oval up to his king whilst Elfhelm fidgeted foot to foot. "First we have Lady Mariel: niece of the Duchess of Lossarnach. Impeccable pedigree and, I understand, a lively interest in all things thoroughbred. She is fourteen."

Éomer blinked and immediately handed the painting back. "I'm not here to rob a carved Gondorian cradle."

'Yes, Sire." Ranulf swallowed and passed the next likeness up. "Kalina. The Duke of Langstrand's daughter. She has, ah, much land to recommend her. I believe the Artist did his best," he added faintly.

Éomer scowled at the image of a gaily beribboned girl with a spectacularly vacant stare. "If I want a lapdog I will apply to Arwen for one of hers."

"Indeed." The scribe ran an admirably steady finger down the list and the next miniature was produced. "If you would prefer a woman from within our borders, there is Gudrun, Dúnhere's daughter. She is about your age and widowed." He paused while Éomer gazed doubtfully at the image. "She is said to be," he coughed a little delicately, "most eager."

There was a collective shudder. "No."

"Aethwen: Austwulf's youngest. She is sixteen."

"No."

"Brunhilde."

"No."

"Lailante. Guthláf's widow."

Elfhelm, on cue, came forward and drew close to the arm of the regal chair. "Éomer-King, my pardon. The lady in question is justly famous for her embroidery and her brewing, but she is, perhaps for you, a little bland."

The explosion of temper was immediate. "_Bema's_ blessed horns! Too young. Too bland. What will you show me next?! The too young and bland!?"

_Merciful Valar_, n_o_. Now came the moment most precarious. Hilde would say her husband had a wonderfully expressive face. Others would say he was an easy mark at poker.

Ranulf held his breath while Elfhelm nervously stroked his mustache down. "There is another possibility," the Marshal muttered slowly. "The youngest Princess of Dol Amroth. _If_ she is still free."

"If?!" Éomer bolted upright so fast a miniature flew off his lap. "She—I mean Imrahil-said nothing of the sort!"

Ranulf bent to pick the painting up. "We have had Intelligence, milord. From Stoningland. She has recently visited Umbar. Emperor Goran of Harad is said to want closer ties to Gondor."

Éomer looked frantically from his Marshal to his scribe. "You both knew of this?!"

Elfhelm nodded vigorously. "Yes. Emperor Goran's name was on the Mettare invitation list."

"Above your own, I believe," added Ranulf brightly, thinking 'in for a penny, in for a pound.' "Queen Arwen did note in her latest official missive that your rooms in the King's palace are always kept fresh and free."

The entire hall in that moment grew hushed and quiet. Elfhelm would say later that he knew exactly the instant Éomer made up his mind. "I suppose the timing is not so very bad." He rubbed thoughtfully at his nape. "Before spring council and the start of foaling season."

The relief was positively acute. Elfhelm bowed quickly and turned upon his heel before he could be called back. The farrier would need to get to work. Riding on Elessar's packed frozen roads was murder on a horse's winter shoes and they would be doing it at speed.

They'd made it to Minas Tirith in three days before.

This time he'd wager they make it there in two.

.

* * *

At last.. woohoo.. we are on our way.. there are 3 more chapters after this.  
Just a quick few notes: æftera ġéola is the period after Yule in the Anglo Saxon calendar, rather like AfterYule that Tolkien used in the Shire Calender. It roughly corresponds to early January. Yuletide varied from 6 to 12 days and I have assumed twelve.

Huge thanks to Thanwen for graciously letting me borrow her headcanon that the Rohirrim call Yavanna Erce, a germanic goddess.

Pompoms and big thank yous to Annafan and Wheelrider for their support of this from the start, and to Carawyn and Gwynnyd for encouragement in the Garden. And high fives to missCocoQc, thanks to whom, this fic will always be for me the one that led to a magical fandom encounter on a train. When asked if you are really writing Eowyn how can you say no? XD I am still blushing!


	2. Chapter 2

There were many duties of ruling that the King-formerly-known-as-Estel found a trifle tedious. The endless snowstorm of official correspondence. Eternal wardrobe fittings for evening dress. Listening to bloviating and self-important councillors.

Two decades of service to great men like Thengel and Echthelion had taught him much. Ruling was a juggler's art. Sometimes judgement and analysis played second fiddle to endurance and sufferance; sometimes monotony rode pillion to responsibility. He had expected it, braced himself, learned to recite herbal compounds when his eyelids threatened to fall down to his cheeks; kept an attentive whip-thin smile for all but the most soporific bores.

But he had not expected the glorious entertainment of receiving lines.

It was the last night of Mettarë celebrations. A dark velvet sky strewn with Varda's sparkling gems hung above a steady parade of resplendent Tower Guards and nobles. Each he welcomed with the traditional salutation '_Light and Life to you_,' for though there was a New Reckoning and a new turn of the Year, all hearts needed lifting in the winter's dark. The endless greetings and the literally hundreds of handshakes should have been a chore.

Except for his Undomiel's wit and his Steward's altogether ruthless memory for history.

Aragorn braced himself as Geithir, Lord of Langstrand, bore down. The aged councillor was annoying at the best of times but particularly objectionable when he was in his cups.

"Elessar!" bellowed the man as he pumped steadily on his King's arm. "Amazed at all you've done. Didn't think you had it in you. You or Denethor's young pup. Another year and still there's peace. No crediting it all." Geithir shook his head, rubbing at his bright red fleshy nose. Between this almost fluorescent manifestation of his love of drink and the lace of burst spider veins that decorated his mottled skin he was nigh as bright as the Haradi guards' keffia.

Aragorn's lips twitched waiting for Arwen to wade in. She did not disappoint.

"And we are amazed you are here at all," remarked the Queen with a sweetness that hid a vinegar-sharpness in the undertones. Her reply sailed with ample room to spare over Langstrand's head. He moved on to Gondor's Steward, was shaking Faramir's hand with far more force than necessary.

"Hope you can keep it up," Geithir remarked, meaning, of course, the watchful peace. This was all too much. Aragorn broke down in a coughing fit that was suddenly most contagious affliction in all of Middle Earth. Arwen turned away. Faramir bent nearly double. The Tower guards beside Merethrond's massive mithril banded doors broke stance to bring their gauntlets up. In the intervening moments, Geithir stood stock still in puzzlement.

"Is Lady Langstrand still taking lessons with her 'fencing master'?" asked Faramir perfectly politely when he could speak again. "She must have quite the skill by now. He is said to have quite the parry. And thrust."

Projection as a defense mechanism was something Aragorn was quite familiar with. It seemed a lack of 'sporting exercise' had been an issue for the poor woman for some time. He watched as Geithir turned first white, then puce. Then his flustered mustaches almost bolted of their own accord.

"_Blessed Nienna_," murmured Faramir just faint enough for Elven ears to hear and Arwen's giggle was immediate.

"Násië."

Aragorn rocked slowly on his aching feet thinking Gondorian rules of precedence were a discipline that rivaled even Elven heraldry. Soldiers first for honour. Courtiers next. Foreign dignitaries and then royalty. Harad before Dale. Dale before Rohan. The Steward and his family before the King. He watched with acute relief as the final few courtiers strode below Merethond's lintel into the blazing space. _Not long now_. One more ball. One more overladen feast and he could relax, whisk his vanimelda away to the quiet of Lorien and find a peaceful winter's rest.

Oddly, she had been most insistent they not leave at once.

He stole a quick glance to his left. Elrond's daughter, a vision in gauzy burgundy, set hand to heart and executed a perfect Haradi bow before the hennaed, gold-draped Emperor, laughing delightedly at Goran's extravagant compliments. Her grey eyes were bright, her almost-smile more than usually beguiling. She was up to _something_ but he did not know what it was. That morn she had stood before their breakfast table, nose wrinkled adorably, lost in thought, one finger tapping like a woodpecker against her cheek, as she perused the planned table seating drawn up the week before.

He knew that pose. She was maneuvering. Arranging things. Scheming for some outcome and _Valar_ help the poor target of her campaign.

With an effort he tore his attention back to the line. "Light and Life to you," he bid, pleased and surprised to find the still handsome face of Dol Amroth's Prince before him. Imrahil and all his children, Ivriniel and their Aunt Ivrenna had all come.

"And to you my friend." The Prince gestured to the dark cherub at his side. "If you will indulge a grandfather, Elessar. Alphros has an announcement for the King."

"He does?" Aragorn bent down and beckoned to the boy.

"I have a sister," announced four year-old Alphros with solemn pride.

"I see that, young master," Aragorn replied, nodding to a beaming Mareth who held a little one in her arms. "And will you be King tonight Alphros? Be the first to find the silver Tharni?"

The little boy grinned and nodded shyly. Each table had a traditional King's Cake with a small silver coin inside for luck. Whoever found it was crowned ruler for the night. As a child it has been his favourite treat. Not for the moist stickiness of its crumb, but for the delight of finding the surprise.

He straightened up just as his wife leaned in to whisper in Mareth's ear. Dol Amroth's Crown Princess flushed pink as her daughter's pretty cap.

"What did you ask her?" Aragorn asked after they had moved on.

"How often Elphir wears his Hammathen."

He coughed. And blushed himself. Arwen was _extremely_ fond of his.

At last the end of the line had come. The King of Rohan strode proudly, the Lady of Ithilien on his arm. Éowyn was radiant. Her gown was pale as moonstone, her circlet all white gold and the fire of precious diamond*. Faramir stepped out. He offered her his arm, gaze lingering a little too long for propriety upon the graceful trail of little buttons that ran down her lower back.

Thunderclouds were known to look less menacing than a suddenly frowning Éomer. "Do they never stop?" he grumbled as Arwen quickly swept him up.

"You expect them to?" she asked. "They _are_ deliriously in love."

"You and the King are far more circumspect."

Arwen's laugh was bell-like and low. "We have had decades of practice scandalizing Rivendell. It isn't sporting anymore." She tilted her dark head to him. "My friend, why are you so out of sorts? It is not like you. I have not seen your wondrous, hearty smile all day."

From his vantage point behind, Aragorn could almost feel the flush of embarrassment that turned Éomer's blond beard red-gold. The younger man glanced furtively up and right. Dol Amroth's youngest Princess stood elegant and at ease beside a towering pillar, a sober swan of teal next to the riot of her brothers' azure and absolutely stunning with her raven hair piled up and clasped by a sparkling sapphire net.

Éomer's gaze tarried a heartbeat too long before he shook his head. "Honestly my Lady, I do not know."

The King of Gondor had to bite his lip to keep his peace.

If there was one thing Aragorn had learned from his travels amongst Men it was how to tell when they were parsimonious with the truth.

.  
~~~000~~~  
.

Hours later, after Alphros had somehow miraculously been crowned his table's King, and Aragorn had dutifully circled, twice, amongst the sated throng, he finally sat down again beside his wife.

The detritus of dinner had been cleared away and the Emperor had excused himself to join the Pelargir lords in spirited debate. In his wake, the extended Hurin-Dol Amroth family joined the Steward and the Prince. They all sat at ease, drinking glasses poised within their hands, quietly attentive to the centre of the table.

This was sufficiently alarming to merit comment.

"Am I interrupting something?" asked Aragorn hopefully.

"Not at all." Imrahil motioned for another tall stemmed glass to be topped up. "Faramir was about to propose a toast."

Aragorn turned to the Steward and his lady wife. The pair were gazing at each other as if no other soul breathed in Arda's sphere. Éowyn's eyes shone. Faramir's smile was soft and so very tender. As he raised his goblet up, he reached down to catch the fingers of hers free hand. "To light and life. And new beginnings!"

"To light!"

The traditional Mettarë toast echoed round the table but before glasses landed back again, the import of his other words began to spark. Imrahil half-rose, chair scraping on the stone, eyes wide. He looked from his nephew to his new niece in wonder.

"Does that mean…?"

The Prince halted, as if the words were too precious to speak aloud.

Faramir beamed and raised Éowyn 's hand, gracing it with a kiss. "Yes Uncle. We are going to welcome our first child."

"Oh, lad!"

Imrahil was around the board in a flash. He engulfed both kinsmen in hugs, smiling so wide it could not help but infect them all, shaking his head in amazement as excited exclamations reigned all around.

Of course a further toast was proposed. "To the future Prince or Princess!"

This was drunk rather less solemnly than the first, and then, while Lothíriel and Mareth, Dol Amroth's Princes and Rohan's King, rose in turn to congratulate the delighted couple, Aragorn leaned over and caught Arwen's attention with a hand upon her knee.

She, alone among the table, seemed quite unsurprised.

"Did you know?" he whispered.

"Yes." Her eyes danced merrily. "I was actually the first to guess. Even before Éowyn."

_She was?!_ _And hadn't said_? He felt put out. He relied upon Arwen to pass on the most important information of each day. "I thought you told me everything?"

His wife made a noise that in a mortal of lesser lineage might have been a snort.

It fell to Mareth, jiggling Mirith in her arms, to ask the question on all their all lips. "When are you due?"

Éowyn dropped a hand to the slight swelling that rounded out her gown. "Lothron."

_Soon_. By Aragorn's hasty calculation that set her well past the time of common sickness. From the bloom upon her cheeks and empty plate at her place, Éowyn was hale and well; not much troubled by the typical annoyances that plagued every prospective mother. The healer in him was well pleased.

"Faramir arrived in May." Imrahil was now unabashedly wiping happy tears from off his cheeks. "T'will be the most wonderful birthday present a man could receive."

Éowyn flushed at the thought. "It was not exactly planned."

"But could have been predicted," quipped Amrothos. He raised his hands in mock defense from his sister's elbow. "The _Erulaitalë_ always works."

On his offside Erchirion was not to be outdone. "Faramir _is_ the best archer in the Kingdom. His arrows always find their mark."

"_Chirion!"_

The Dol Amroth contingent groaned in perfect harmony. They were used to his infelicitations but that did not mean the young prince went unpunished. Lothíriel's napkin 'accidently' flew into his face.

"That is absolutely the most wonderful of news," she said, turning to her cousin who looked a little misty eyed himself. "It would be just splendid if it was the fifteenth."

Faramir kissed a still blushing Éowyn on the brow. "Yes. I cannot imagine any more perfect gift."

At the far end of the table the Dowager Duchess of Tolfalas tapped her walking stick on the floor. "I daresay you will be happy with any date young Mir. And pace anxiously with all the rest. Babies arrive when they arrive."

"First babies are often late," added Elphir with some authority.

"Faramir came early."

Ivriniel's addition set the betting off. Prospective dates from Coronation Day to Midsummer's Eve were debated and discussed. While the frothy wine went round again and wagers were laid and paid (he whispered to Arwen to cut him in), Aragorn watched Éomer thoughtfully. Rohan's King was still uncharacteristically quiet; taking a long drink from a generous Kine horn and looking slightly dazed. Perhaps it had not registered that his sister's children would be his heirs? For the interim it would be so, but surely, in due course, there would be children of his own?

Aragorn sat and puzzled at his friend's disquiet until the minstrels started up. The table quickly cleared. Faramir swept Éowyn out onto the floor and Elphir followed with Mareth on his arm once the little ones were given into the Aunts' expert care. Erchirion and Amrothos soon cajoled Lothíriel into 'inspecting' the sweet table, and he was just considering packing his pipe with Goran's gift of Haradi shisha leaf when suddenly his vanimelda bolted up.

Arwen held a pale arm across the table to a startled Éomer. "Mellon nin, would you lead me in?"

Imrahil bore a puzzled line upon his brow. "Doesn't she know Éomer hates to dance? He would rather mud-wrestle with a pig."

So Aragorn understood. A moment of high tension stretched as Éomer hesitated and Arwen asked again. "Éomer?" Her dove grey eyes were steel. Would Rohan really refuse their ally's Queen? Would he gainsay a direct request and if so what excuse would he give?

Aragorn held his breath. Into the quietude there fell a burst of laughter. Over by the long gallery, between the exotic chocolate and the expected little white iced cakes, a marvellously garish Emperor Goran was bowing over Lothíriel's hand. They looked very well together—two dark heads, much of a height- the one lithe and delicate but deceptively strong, the other broad and muscled, a tower of overt strength but deceptively easy in his speech.

Éomer saw it too. A muscle slowly tightened in his jaw. "I would be honoured, Queen Arwen." He rose and offered her his arm, led her out onto the gleaming marble floor. There was a flutter amongst the dancers as they took their place- just far enough from the desserts to not hear the cross-cultural debate, just close enough to give lanky Éomer an unobstructed view.

The dance was a slow longways set. Éomer would be facing the Princess and her suitor the entire time.

The King of Reunited Realms shook his head in silent admiration and bowed his head to answer Imrahil's concerns.

"I do find it best to humour her. In everything."

.  
~~~000~~~

.

Two reels, a pavanne and strathspey later Éomer found himself safely in the lee of an enormous potted plant. It was the only suitable cover he could find. The sweet and drink tables were unsurprisingly too thronged with revellers, the minstrel's gallery too far for viewing, and the head table, was of course the head—placed just below the King's marble throne and in full view of all.

_Always find good cover for a scouting mission._ Théodred had taught him that what felt a lifetime ago, chasing Dunlendings through rough thickets of willow and cat-tail about the Isen's sandy banks. _Tilion guide his flight_. He missed his cousin—intensely. Théo, blissfully but unofficially attached, would have been merciless in his teasing over Éomer's present predicament.

The Princess of Dol Amroth was _still_ in Goran's arms. It was making his blood near boil.

_Tulkas_ _give me strength_. For a warrior who did not know any other way but forward this—this sortie was utterly maddening. First, the ridiculously stringent receiving line meant Lothíriel had been whisked into the teeming throng before he'd even set foot in the hall. Then, at dinner there'd been no chance to talk. His place, beyond his sister and brother-in-law, had been a wonderful vantage to hear their news (his Wyn a mother!) but frustratingly as far from the Dol Amroth contingent as could be.

Not so the Emperor. The smug bastard had spent the first three courses regaling Lothíriel with _some_thing fascinating—Éomer could not hear the words but sure as the Weaver's threads he'd heard her every laugh.

Now the Haradan had danced with her. _Twice_.

An odd unsettled flight of butterflies somersaulted in his stomach. Goran, the only scion of the one tribe to deny the Serpent's call, made quite a sight. He was a riot of decoration: gold winking in his braids and sleeves, whorls of a curious brown paint trailing across each inch of skin, silver cuffs breaking like waves across his hands. Even his distinctive, deep rumbling laugh set Éomer's teeth on edge. The man was too cultured to be real. Snippets of poetry and history were thrown about like bunting at a fair. Each dance step was neat and perfect. Goran led Lothíriel through all the movements as if he and not just his every garment were made of silk.

Even his warrior's skills could not be derided. Goran had batted on Nurn's sands at Aragorn's side, knives and wickedly sharp sword curved just slightly tighter than the fierce grin upon his face.

The Emperor was brave, and strong, and undeniably powerful. All the fractious Tribes were now united under his banner. A man to be esteemed indeed, but could Lothíriel really be seriously considering the match? Or others? The unwelcome thought made the butterflies flip again. How had he not considered that the Princess would be thronged by suitors? She was everything a King could want. Beautiful. Caring. Accomplished. With a heart that flowed from her letters as she detailed rebuilding along southern Anduin but also a lively curiosity about the world beyond her home. The passages where she asked about customs of the Riddermark were a delight: witty and warm , and above all _relaxed_. This was no fussy Gondorian noblewoman with whom he'd have to parse every word.

Lothíriel was more like Éomer's experience of Boromir than his haughty, unlamented father. At first he had assumed that was just the Captain-General; at ease around campfires and drinking halls, happily partaking of any cup to hand, but now he'd come to see it was a _feature _of the wider Dol Amroth family. Imrahil, his sister, and his eldest son were polished but also practical; charming and straightforward in a way that most southern Lords could not hope to emulate. Faramir's natural reserve was quite a different thing in close company. And his younger cousins-well Erchirion and Amrothos were clearly at ease _everywhere_.

Even if a man didn't want it.

Éomer shook his head. The dusty, hasty ride from Edoras had done much to clear his head. The little matter of the Bride Price bet must be set aside. His pride had been sorely pricked but Loithiriel's manoeuver had ultimately been to his, and Éowyn's, benefit. And what was more, _he_ had been the one to proposition her. Lothíriel could not have been certain that Faramir would win-just confident. It felt unKingly for him to harbour any lingerly awkward sentiment. Dol Amroth would be a suitable, even natural, alliance. Three Queens of the Mark had hailed from Gondor. His own grandfather Thengel Thrice-Renowned had married Morwen of Lossarnach and found lasting happiness and love, had been so at home in Gondor that when his father Fengel's cursed greedy pride made life unbearable, the young Crown Prince and his family took refuge in its mountain vales. Théodred's famously clean shaven state had been a nod to their illustrious grandsire's influence and of course the ties between Wold and Bay went both ways. Imrahil's grandfather Prince Angelmir had looked to Rohan for a Princess. Fána, renowned for her green and artistic thumb, had been a daughter of Harrowdale.

All of this was to the good. The people of the Riddermark would welcome a Dol Amroth Princess with honour and open arms but, most importantly, _he_ could picture Lothíriel at home in golden Meduseld. Picture _them_ at home. Working to put the kingdom back to rights. Starting a new line for a new Age.

Unfortunately it appeared there was a rather substantial obstacle in the way.

If only he could hear more clearly what the dancers said.

"Is your eavesdropping bearing fruit?"

Éomer whirled about. His Third Marshal stood at his shoulder, a silver tankard in each hand and a grin upon his homey face. He had bravely volunteered to test each ale on offer and it appeared at least one was judged worthy of consumption.

"I wasn't eavesdropping."

"No?" asked Elfhelm, offering across a tankard of something darkly foamy. "You fancied hiding in the foliage? Or are you practising Steelsheen's art."

"Neither." Éomer frowned suspiciously at the contents of the cup. Eademother Morwen loved gardens and had been utterly frustrated with Edoras's bitter frosts; was famous for the pots of green that graced every spare inch of hall. He wondered fleetingly if Lothíriel would also miss Belfalas' lush shores? Perhaps. But better Edoras's golden fields than Sarma's tawny sands. Nothing grew outside the Harad capital's new walls.

He took a quick gulp and turned back to face the hall. "My dance with Arwen has ended," he explained. "It's cooler here. I moved to be nearer to the door."

"Hmmm."

Elfhelm was obviously not convinced. The older man threw back his pint, wiped his mustache thoughtfully and crossed his arms across his massive chest. Out on the floor the Queen and the Steward were gliding through a series of intricate moves, the King and Éowyn were laughing giddily and Goran had his hand on Lothíriel's tiny waist.

Éomer wasn't staring. He was only reconnoitering the terrain. And being completely distracted by a dark cascade of hair that gleamed in the light that spilled from the torches and a corsair's haul of candles.

How could he help it if she looked so very—suitable?

Elfhelm's low chuckle drifted past. 'Sire if I might be so bold. It is always best for the herd when the stallion clearly marks his territory."

"If!" That took some bloody nerve. What would his friend do next? Announce his intentions to the hall? "There is no territory to mark!" insisted Éomer hotly. "She danced with Faramir, too."

"Of course. But you aren't looking daggers at the Stoninglanders' Prince."

"He's her"_…. cousin_, Éomer began but quickly smothered the reply. Engaging more would only prove Elfhelm's point.

The King schooled his face to polite disinterest; calmed restless fingers tapping on the mug and the leg vibrating like a bow, made himself look everywhere but at the colourful couple on the floor. This was torture. Like the last tense moments before battle was finally joined, Firefoot tossing restlessly and every sinew on alert.

The Marshal took a gulp and tried again. "When are you going to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"If Lothíriel will marry you! Béma's bollocks she is a catch. Smart and pretty. By all accounts a good horsewoman. Knows nursing from her aunt. Has helped run their household since her mother died. But…" Elfhelm paused for effect. "Most of all she's in yer head."

Éomer jerked so hard he just barely avoided drenching himself in beer. _In his head?_ Was it so? Her letters had only been reread twice. Or thrice. He rode a league or so to meet every messenger but that was for Firefoot's benefit. He knew her favourite flower was the anemone and she liked sunshine after rain.

All perfectly natural when people were just friends.

Or family.

Or….

_Béma. _

Elfhelm was was smitten. Lost. And seeing her in another man's arms was making a green tinted rage slide down.

"How did you know Hilde was right for you?"

Elfhelm blinked, and grinned at the sudden change of tack. "Lass irritated me. Constantly. Like a burr below a saddle blanket."

_Oh_.

Éomer felt a little deflated. Lothíriel didn't irritate so much as unsettle him. Made him blurt out things he'd never thought to share. Wish, ridiculously, for a bard's silver tongue. And worry about the dust upon his tunic and the tangles in his hair. Why he'd even been about to ask a servant if they had the drier wine she liked!

He might not by Elfhelm's definition be in love but by Nahar's shining hooves he wanted to put his fist through Goran's tattooed face.

That counted for something, surely?

Behind, his friend clapped a warm hand upon his shoulder. "It is just a dance."

"I know."

"And you've crushed her toes once before."

"I did not! I was perfectly regally smooth."

Éomer gave a quiet snort. "If I kenned you'd be so nervous I'd have brought Hilde so you could practice right before."

"I don't need practice." _I need nerves to interrupt. _

Across the hall Arwen had thoughtfully thrown open the long doors. A most welcome breeze wafted the night scent of stocks and the dancers' words across.

"_It is said on a day when the wind is perfect, a sail must open and the world is full of beauty. Today is such a day_."Goran paused mid-step to give Lothíriel a courtly bow. "_In the light of your beauty I see truly how to love_."

_Gag_. Éomer suddenly felt ill. It could be the ale or the rich seafood. Or not. A gold-dipped tongue and gold rings on every finger were quite enough. Could Lothíriel really cleave to such a man? Goran was barely taller than she was! And did the Haradrim not take more than one bride?

Someone had to save her from such a fate.

He reached out and quickly grabbed whatever the popinjay walking past had upon on his tray. It wasn't bad. A hoppy amber a notch above Minas Tirith's barely fermented water.

Éomer snagged a second. Threw it back. Set both empty cups down upon the tray.

"Hold my glass. And keep the pitcher here."

It might be Gondorian swill but he wasn't going to waste a drop..

~~~000~~~

.

"May I cut in?"

To Éomer's eternal (and relieved) surprise Goran did not put up a fight. The Emperor magnanimously bowed without so much as a quirked shoulder blade, murmured 'my thanks Princess' to a startled Lothíriel and left.

She stood, dove grey eyes wide but not unwelcoming, with an adorably puzzled wrinkle to her nose. The moment stretched, thin and taut as taffy, before she graced him with a solemn nod.

_Nienna's mercy_.

He stepped in, swept her into his strong arms where she felt right. And perfect. And entirely too enticing. Nestled just beneath his chin he could smell jasmine and sun and sea-wind in her hair.

The sense of home and relief were for a moment dizzying.

They each dropped a hand and turned away, began the slow stately promenade of the court dance. Éomer did his best, back straight and eyes scanning other dancers for the pattern, following along despite the odd distracting prickling of his palm where they had touched.

Did Lothíriel feel it too? Was she discomfited to be partnered by him again? They had not spoken face to face since his sister's wedding, but a quick glance askance showed nothing overtly of concern.

Her shoulders were relaxed. The grip of her fine fingers on his larger ones was firm and steady. The faintest quirk to her lips suggested something was diverting.

He hoped it wasn't his dancing steps.

"Princess, what amuses you so?"

Lothíriel turned and glanced up, eyes glinting in the torchlight. "My Lord, we appear to be dancing."

"And that is funny?"

"Indeed. I thought it not your favourite pastime. Your feet seem to be not listening to your head."

"Actually they are."

A black eyebrow jumped in surprise. "How curious. Six months ago that head would have said dancing was purest torture." The quirk spread into a teasing smile. "Is it growing on you? Like Gondor's beer?"

"Not bloody likely!"

She laughed, low and easy. The sound almost made him lose his grip. "Oh thank _Nienna_. I was worried you were not Éomer Éomundsson after all!"

"Pardon?! You thought me an imposter?"

"Yes! A perfect copy animated by an evil wizard for some gain. One that loves dancing and claret and my father's sweet sack for dessert."

"Never!" he shuddered in mock horror, thoroughly enjoying their repartee. "I am exactly as you see. A man doing his best to not embarrass himself. And you. Besides, this is more of a walk."

It was. Thank _Béma_ and _Erce_ and every Valar in the Undying Lands. The steps were fairly simple. Forward. Back. Turn away. And back together. Rotate a quarter each time until they circled about the hall. If he was going to make a fool of himself before all of Minas Tirith let it be for a set where he could not accidentally fling the lady across the hall.

She was so tiny and light in his arms it felt almost possible.

They fell back and the set began again. Éomer did his best to focus unobtrusively on his feet, was thrilled when Lothíriel followed smoothly, even helped for a heart-stopping instant with a subtle pressure on his wrist.

How much longer before her second hand came back? He risked a glance down at those captivating eyes and realized they had darkened.

She expected him to say more.

"My pardon Princess if I am quiet. I am concentrating. I am a Rider not a courtier."

"Of course," said Lothíriel encouragingly, "but if this is new to you, I cannot tell. You are doing wonderfully well."

_What a relief_! He'd not expected Lothiriel to value perfect steps and unctuous compliments above sincerity and spirit, but to hear it, straight, warmed him instantly. Perhaps that smarmy bastard hadn't an edge up after all? Was he not brave? And honourable? A justly proud son of Eorl and a handsome one at that—if the serving girls' giggles were anything to go by.

He had as much to offer a prospective Queen as any man in the Reunited Realms.

"My Lord?"

"Éomer."

"Éomer," she repeated slowly, glancing up shyly as she tried the unfamiliar sounds. The accent was right, and the 'mer' at the end. That she cared enough to not mangle his given name set a happy fizzing through his chest.

"We seem to be speaking with each other."

"We do."

"And we have—corresponded."

He nodded distractedly. Her slim fingers had caught up with his again.

"Then am I to assume that I am forgiven?

Had his actions not told her so? "_Gea_. Yes. Of course." he answered quickly, wondering if women always need things said. He must remember that if he was to live with one. Éowyn had always been entirely direct, but she was a Shieldmaiden and true daughter of the Mark. Lothíriel was something else—a Princess and a Dúnadan. Used to a world bound by polite politicking and official propriety—no matter the sharks swimming just below the surface.

A slight crease he hadn't noticed smoothed on her pale forehead. They turned. And turned again. Moving faster through each set as the tempo noticeably increased. "Does this go on?" he asked a little worriedly, trying to keep his head up and his boots firmly on the floor.

"Yes. For a quarter candlemark." She grinned at the faintly horrified look on his face. "At the end the dancers' garb and the black pillars will be a blur. So long as you can speak you are coping well."

_Béma!_ A dance just like a Gondorian. What appeared at first innocent was not the same thing by the end. "Talk to me," he pleaded.

Lothíriel laughed but immediately acquiesced. "May I offer my congratulations on your forthcoming niece or nephew."

"Thank you," he replied and meant it. "The news is indeed wonderful. A first child so soon is a blessing from _Erce_."

"But…?" Her dark head tilted.

The lass had read him expertly again. Éomer paused for a beat, debating. Some details that were personal had already been divulged in their many letters. Why not share his heart? The faint frown and bitten lip, and frank honesty of her tone, told him she could be discreet.

He took a deep breath and plunged. "I was shocked that now their babe will be my heir; had not realized until I saw them so blissfully overjoyed how much I wanted one of my own." Éomer flushed and looked away, voice for an instant thick and heavy with more unsaid. "Not an heir for the royal bloodline you understand. A child of _mine_. I'd never really thought of it before."

Lothíriel did not seem to find this foolish. "It is a very mortal thing to wish a part of ourselves to carry on. A child is a living symbol of hope. And a couple's love."

Éomer stared down in shock. From nigh twenty years before a skein of memory tugged hard. _"You are a living symbol of our love."_ The words were his mother Théodwyn's—said as rivulets of tears tracked down her cheeks. She had hugged the three of them together, giving what little solace she could. And knowing they would never be four again.

He had to cough to shift the lump that rose in his throat. "Aye, Éowyn and Faramir could not love each other more."

"That they do," Lothíriel smiled gently but then her attention diverted briefly. By the sweet table her younger brothers were teasing a victim once again. Faramir was being plied with the Last Night cakes. Their sweet, teeth-stinging, orange-scented marizpan was dressed with little icing stars. He had downed the first on offer but declined the second one.

"Here, have another. It's small. Hardly more than a bite," urged Amrothos loudly as Erchirion waved the second cake beneath the famous Hurin nose. "Not feeling off are you?"

Éomer shook his head. "What is all that fuss about?"

"Family lore," explained Lothíriel, caught by a helpless bout of giggles. "Of all the people to get sympathetic morning sickness it was Denethor."

"Denethor?!"

Gondor's noble Steward afflicted by morning sickness?!The image was entirely too ridiculous. "Poor bugger," he said with some feeling. Having seen Théodred's Godwyn suffer stoically, he'd not wish the constant malaise on anyone. "Is it hereditary?" he asked, thinking Éowyn would have enough to handle for herself.

Lothíriel shrugged. "Oh Fara's fine. He has a stomach of iron. Eats any sort of fodder scavenged out in the wilds and has sailed on Anduin for years. It was Boromir who hated crossing water." Another shy smile appeared. "Your sister is slowly taking to it."

_Sailing?_ A hard sell indeed. It was not a skill a Rohir acquired. The glacier-fed Snowbourn got its name quite honestly: too icy for swimming on all but hottest days and far too shallow and rocky for navigation. The only sailing he had done was thundering across the Eastfold's sea of grass.

"She is doing as any fine warrior would. Adapting to new terrain as circumstances warrant."

Lothíriel laughed delightedly, looking pointedly around at the neat rows of couples. "As does her brother apparently! You are not even dizzy yet!"

_Béma be thanked_. The viol's notes climbed and dipped and climbed again, and Éomer found himself hand in hand and face to face with his partner. Her breathy giggle made Lothiriel's chest press a little closer, let him feel the warmth from the blue-green taffeta, the fine bones along her ribs.

_Gods._ For the first time in months the knot of anxiety that had rudely taken up residence below his heart began to ease, melted like a snowflake in strong sun. He forgot himself and just let his feet move where they would; gave in to the music and the sense that in that moment, everything in the world was well.

They were both grinning and quite breathless when the turning finally stopped.  
.

~~~000~~~

.

"Father what are we going to do?"

"Do?" answered Imrahil, guessing the direction of his son's thoughts. Erchirion was frowning mightily at the sight of his little sister quite literally swept off her feet. They sat, Imrahil, Ivriniel, Ivrenna and his younger sons, perusing developments with interest. Elphir and Mareth had shepherded the little ones to bed. Faramir and Éowyn were 'taking some air' out on a secluded balcony. Aragorn was talking salt and trade with Goran's aide. Out on the polished marble of the hall Dol Amroth's youngest princess was receiving more than her fair share of shirty looks from heavily coiffed, prow-fronted matrons.

Their precious Miriels were sitting idly pretty and perfumed and mostly ignored by the two most eligible bachelors in the room.

_Vultures_, he thought privately to himself, relieved that Elphir was happily attached and that Amrothos and Erchirion had followed protocol. Each had danced with a partner only once, showed no outward favouritism. Unlike Thiri. He sighed. He was, it had to be admitted, not sure that _he_ was ready for that development. Arwen's question about tradition had been much on Imrahil's mind of late.

The girl who had run wild since her mother's death might have blossomed into a poised and confident young woman, but her doting father was not entirely happy about this step through the next door of life.

The last chick was ready to fly the nest. Where had the coltish daughter gone who had chased her elder brothers with dark braids flying and half undone?

"We need to be prepared," insisted Erchirion, jerking his head in the direction of the dance of floor. "I'd wager every inch of _Westwind_ that Goran will ask for her hand and my warhorse that Éomer will too."

"I believe that you may be right." Arwen smiled as she gracefully sank into a seat beside Ivrenna. The Duchess was enjoying the spectacle immensely. She had a drink and dessert and an uninterrupted view of more black breeches than she'd seen in months.

"She would be foolish to not consider them both. Both are strong, and honest, and shrewd. And positively edible," declared Ivrenna, as always delightfully indecent at her age. She admired the intricate shoulder knots of Rohan's dress tunic and its hem of Béma's running stags. "I would be quite happy to be given to either one, but a uniform does so make a man. There is something magnetic about the look."

"Provided it isn't held up by months of sweat and dirt."

_Did Arwen mean the King_? Dol Amroth's Ruling Prince was not certain that he was certain that he'd like to know. It might prove an unfortunate image at the council table.

"Emperor Goran is also a catch," Amrothos added. "And he's clearly keen on an alliance."

"Exactly." Erchiron took a long pull of his dark beer. "If one or both of them asks for her hand, how will we settle the Bride Price and such?"

"How?" Imrahi felt mildly shocked by his son's obtuseness. "By haggling. Masterfully. As we always do. No Dol Amroth Princess ever leaves without a substantial dowry, but the Stewards and Tolfalas," he inclined his head toward his aunt, "gave up much for the honour of their hands."

"Denethor gave Finduilas his family's entire estate in Emyn Arnen. And all the lands about," noted Ivriniel drily. "Imrahil can get the back legs off a stallion if he so chooses."

Arwen raised her cup. "Possibly literally in this case."

The whole table laughed yet Erchirion was clearly much bothered by the lack of a formal rite. "Are you certain there is nothing formal?"

"Absolutely." Ivrenna tapped her stick on the floor. "Dol Amroth Princesses know their own hearts.. And their fathers dote on them."

Imrahil could not help but nod. "'Tis true. I can deny her nothing. But I trust Thiri to know her own mind. Besides, given our history of quite literally stealing brides—the first Prince, Imrazor, is reputed to have locked Mithrellas in a tower—we are hardly in a position to quibble at another's fair offering."

Erchirion flushed. "But we can't hand our sister over to just anyone like a sack of sardines in the market!"

"I don't know, she sort of sort of smells like them after a day in Aunt Rini's wards."

Ivriniel reached across and thumped Amrothos hard.

"Can't we think of something?" he said, rubbing at his arm. "I feel somehow that we would be losing face. That contest was a cracker."

It was a fair point. As one the Dol Amroth crew turned to the Dowager Duchess.

Ivrenna paused to take a sip of quite good brandy. ""We do have a certain reputation for taking what we want. However, the one thing that comes mind is the Water Test."

"The what?!" asked the Dol Amroth Princes in unison.

"The Water test. It is the only vaguely similar tradition that I know of, and an unofficial one at that. The Princesses of late have all tried to drown their suitors."

Arwen almost choked. Imrahil stared in disbelief and his sons looked shocked but interested. Ivrenna, warming to the subject, took a breath and continued on. "It came about as part of an irregular tradition for the princesses of the family to take their suitors out for a sail. It had certain advantages: weeded out the entirely unsuitable; and allowed them to be happily unchaperoned. The first time was quite by accident. Your great great aunt Idril, Angelimir's youngest, took out Lord Pinnath's youngest son and a storm blew up. Poor sod wound up lashed to the mast. Most embarrassing. And obviously an impossible match. Her sister Merelan then quite literally half drowned the attentions of a tiresome ass whose name I can't recall. As for Galathon and myself—" she blushed a most becoming shade of pink," there was nothing either of us needed to learn about sailing. But we did see if we could calm the waves together."

"Calm the waves?" asked Arwen in all innocence.

Imrahil's eyebrows shot into his hairline. It was not a phrase a queen, much less a princess, used in polite company. Ivriniel rolled her eyes and Amrothos and Erchirion suddenly felt a burning need to inspect Merethrond's impressive ceiling.

"What does it mean?"

Ivrenna was only too happy to explain. "Uinen is said to have calmed storms by distracting Ossë with kisses and caresses. Belfalas lads and lasses have been testing the effect for generations."

The queen was most intrigued. "This tradition has continued recently?"

"Oh yes. Finduilas reduced three young lords to quivering wrecks before Denethor came along. And he was far from immune. As a man who disliked being out of control it was a singular experience. I suspect only his stubborn iron will kept him in the boat." Ivrenna chuckled. "The spar nearly come off, his fingers were so tight. Sadly I have no daughters to continue the tradition. Lothíriel will be the last for a long while."

"And a good thing, too," muttered Imrahil, starting to be somewhat aghast at direction the conversation was wandering. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I confess this 'tradition' went unnoticed, at least by me."

"And thankfully our Father," muttered Ivriniel below her breath.

"It is a bit unpropitious given Amroth drowned trying to find his lady love."

Ivrenna frowned. "Quite, dear nephew. But it is all suggestion that I have. If you wish for some formal and historical rite of vetting suitors Lothíriel will need to test their seaworthiness"

Imrahil's brow furrowed deeply as he threw his own brandy back. It sounded like trouble looking for a home. "So you propose she take each man out for a sail upon the bay before their offers can be accepted? "

"Exactly."

The full import began to sink in. A King of the grasslands and an Emperor of the barren sands were going to be put in a boat. Piloted solo by the young Princess.

Her family around the table paled as one.

Lothíriel sailed just the way she rode.

At speed and without care for life and limb.

Erchirion broke into a grin.

"It's perfect!"  
.

* * *

"Násië." Is Quenya for 'Amen"

A Hammathen is a short white samite kilt worn by the Faithful of Numenor as a secret symbol of their allegiance to the Valar. You can find it's story in The Bride Price 1

Haradan is a term I have made up for a man of Harad.. using the suffix –dan, as it is used in Dunadan etc.

Goran's words to Lothiriel about sails and beauty are a quote from my favourite poet Rumi.

I am trying to make this congruent with the Emyn Arnen Yule series..hence Faramir and Éowyn's happy news. The eagle-eyed among you will recognize Goran as Najir's nephew from Captains and Pawns. He was the only male of the Qahtani Tribe to escape into the desert and avoid bowing to the priests and the Red Serpent. My headcanon is that Elessar trusted him as one of the Faithful, and supported him in uniting Harad under a new rule, once the people were free of Sauron's puppets.

Thank you so very much to Busya, Mishka2, and Nymphae for favouriting and to all who followed and reviewed Chapter 1!

As always Annafan and Wheelrider are my amazing sounding boards and Carawyn and Gwynnyd are wonderful cheerleaders.

If a parody of this appears featuring a Chris Hemsworth-Éomer muttering 'Not Again' as his dancing partner literally flies across the hall, IT IS ALL CARAWYN's FAULT! XD…


	3. Chapter 3

_April 3021 F.A._

"Well, well, well. Look what the spring rains have flushed down from the plains."

Erchirion hadn't meant to speak aloud but his wry observation in a quiet corner of Dol Amroth's stables brought a small surprise.

The stack of rough hay bales at his elbow gave a quiet cough. "Indeed. We seem to be hip deep in kings."

He whirled. There, well camouflaged in tawny straw and pale ochre flowing robes, stood Arwen's newest lady in waiting: Zenaida. Emperor Goran's sister. Her dark eyes were narrowed, her neat brows furrowed hard, intent as he upon the group gathered about Imrazor, Imrahil's prize stallion.

He sketched a hasty bow. "My lady. Apologies. I did not notice you."

"That was rather the point." Her lips gave a sudden twitch. "But_ I_ most certainly noticed _you_."

He flushed, more than a little embarrassed by a very pointed gaze. Hiding was Amrothos' skill. His little brother could blend in anywhere—and did in their father's service—but Erchirion was more straightforward. Sword and sextant leading from the front. Besides, he wasn't exactly hiding but more hoping to not intrude. He had just disembarked after a month on _Westwind_'s decks. His beard and long braids were ragged; his uniform a little ripe. Not exactly presentable. But the temptation to find out _who _had shown up for the coming Great Council meeting had proved too much.

Zenaida smiled inscrutably and turned back to the proceedings. The Great Council of Middle-Earth was five days away. Kings Bard and Dain, and Elessar and Éomer had assembled early. They were touring the palace stables and taking time to admire the conformation of Dol Amroth's famous grays. Even Goran was impressed. The Emperor bent down to run an expert hand along a flank and remark on a fine muscled line. In the slanting light of late spring afternoon he was almost eyewateringly bright. Draped in more gold than Numenor's last mad, bad mummified kings.

Erchirion came back to Zenaida's observation. "Unmarried monarchs seem as common as drunk ratings upon the wharves." He nodded toward the group. "The prospect of competition attracts them."

Zenaida nodded. "Like flies. And your sister is the prize they circle round."

The blunt answer took him quite aback. Lothiriel as a piece of meat was not an analogy he would choose- - she would be justly furious at the thought—but there was no doubt that two of those hovering and hanging on her every word as she showed off Imrazor's dancing gait were more interested in her than warhorse breeding lines.

Well almost more. Éomer did truly look intrigued. And admiring.

"I am surprised your brother has thrown his hat into the ring," said Erchirion distractedly, trying to catch what Lothiriel was saying. "Is he not wed to the rightful heiress to Yachay?"

Zenaida shrugged a shoulder. ""Yes. But just because you have one rare bloom does not mean you cannot revere another. Competition for an eligible princess will always be fierce. What else could coax Goran out to eat bland fish and drink oddly frothy wines?"

Erchirion blinked in surprise. "They are not to his taste?"

She made a face. ""Shukran Jazīlan, no. Gondorian fare is supposedly subtle, but we prefer something more direct."

Direct. That perfectly captured the Haradrim he had met. "Salt tack bites you in the throat. That can be arranged for a voyage."

"Perhaps." Zenaida turned away and raised up on her tiptoes. "Your pardon, my lord. I need to hear what they are saying."

As did he. Amused (and slightly ruffled in all truth), Erchirion focused on the stalls but kept a watchful eye on his companion out of the corner of his eye. She was petite but not exactly pretty. More striking, a slim concoction of self confidence and coloured linen. Nose scrunched and concentrating, she reminded him of a mongoose on the hunt. Intent. And singularly focused. "And why are you hiding here?" he asked, after a quiet moment.

"I am spying," she answered with no trace of guilt. "If Goran takes another wife my position will be modified. As his sister I take precedence after wife one, but a second…"

She left the implication hanging. "I should think you need not worry about that," said Erchirion quickly. "Éomer–King is one of the handsomest, most eligible bachelors in Middle-Earth. Next to me, of course. As a Rider and a warrior, he has more than proved his mettle on the Pelennor."

Zenaida raised a brow. "The more power a man has the handsomer he gets. My brother is an Emperor. I see he is being subtle today. Only one pack train's worth of gold upon his person." Her lips quirked again. "In contrast your Horse-lord looks-barbaric."

Erchirion bristled. Éomer looked perfectly regal but relaxed in tooled leather tunic and high boots, his long fair hair pulled back by the slimmest of silver bands. Broad shouldered, powerfully built, he towered over all but Aragorn and Faramir. "Would you like to wager?"

Zenaida's eyes widened in surprise. ""My brother versus your Horse-lord? That would make the sojourn interesting. But I understand our manner of wagering is different than on your famous docks."

"You have my attention."

"In our culture luck in winning must be given away, the good fortune must be shared, else the Wind Lord frowns. It is customary for the winner to grant the loser a boon. If my brother wins I will grant you one."

"And If Éomer wins I will grant one to you?" Erchirion hesitated, thinking of his ship. Windhunter was sleek and swift, the best ship of justly famous fleet. "Is there a limit to what one asks?"

Zenaida laughed. "Yes. By tradition the boon must be something of…" she frowned, adorably biting her lip. "Elessar's wine midday must be stronger than I thought. I cannot remember your word."

"What is it?"

"_Memari_."

"Ah. That means learning or knowledge."

Zenaida looked impressed. "You know something of our language, my Lord?"

Erchirion's grin was only very slightly feral. "I have—sailed—there. Many times."

She laughed, throwing her dark head back. "Of course! 'Sailed.' Just as Goran 'wandered' in the desert, accidentally lost when the Shaven Ones came for tribute." Her dark eyes glinted. "I am impressed. Knowledge is our highest calling. Something we always seek."

Zenaida was about to say more but he stopped her with an outstretched hand. The Kings had suddenly moved farther down the stone flagged floor to assemble about a pretty mare, but Éomer and Lothíriel had broken off. They were walking with her hand about his proffered elbow toward the rear, western door.

"Where are they going?"

"I am not sure," answered Erchirion, staring past the stone lintel into the bright light of a fresh spring afternoon. Éomer politely motioned for Lothíriel to precede him through. He looked tense and yet intent; every muscle coiled, moving nervously like a horse that was all keyed up. As if he were about to run a race. Or something momentous was about to come…

Understanding dawned. "Come! We have to find my brother. We have to stop them!"

"From what?!" Zenaida asked, instantly picking up her skirts and keeping to his side as he hustled from his hiding place. "Where are they going?"

"That way leads to grandmother's private gardens. He's going to propose!"

.

~~~000~~~

.

'Lothíriel will you join me in a walk?"

The request had been quite spontaneous. Éomer had strolled with Faramir, Elphir and Mareth in Fana's grand gardens the night before at the end of a perfect day. Imrahil, shrewdly anticipating endless restless hours in the council chamber, took the early assembled guests for a bracing gallop across the scenic grey cliff tops and after, an enthusiastically embraced tour to his best vineyard. The food had been wonderful, the company even better, but the only discordant note had been that it proved impossible to get Lothíriel alone.

Her aunt and brothers watched her constantly like a hawk. Each time he sidled near they circled closer, not _exactly_ listening in but absolutely not giving them much space. The visit to the stables had been quite the opposite: Lothíriel unencumbered by pesky chaperones, confidently showing Imrazor off to the group, so obviously at home with a stable and its denizens and answering every detailed question of lineage with ease.

Gods but it did something to him (and his nether parts) to see her so relaxed, bossing the great grey charger three times her size around as if he were the merest colt; expertly thumping his barrel when he briefly refused to move. Béma what a woman! Beautiful and brilliant and fearless. An expert horsewoman. He could picture her as Queen, sitting by his side in Meduseld's golden hall, but more important he picture them, together, racing across the Wold with her dark hair flying in the breeze; sitting by the great hearth of the evening speaking of everything and nothing; swinging a giggling little lass or lad up in the air.

(Béma where did _that_ come from? Seeing Mareth cradle her new daughter in her arms had obviously done something to his brain.)

The offer for her hand needed to come _now_, before that great gaudy thorn in his side had a chance to speak but the only problem was exactly _where_?

The first thing that came to mind was the broad sweep of garden that overlooked the sea.

They walked along the neat raked gravel paths, she pointing out the gay host of small spring blooms that filled each bed, he feeling that his heart might beat right out of his chest. His pulse was pounding. Sweat trickled down his back. He forced himself to walk leisurely at her side, all the while scanning for an appropriately auspicious spot to stop. Somewhere quiet and private but green and elegant, for though the venue mattered not a fig to him, this was (hopefully) a momentous occasion for her too.

It needed to be right.

The exact spot appeared after several perfect square beds of pink anemone and beyond an alley of new leafed limes. Beside a white marble statue of Lorien and a swath of low fruit trees awash in sweet pink bloom he stopped and took her small fine hands in his; drank in the sight of the sun's sheen on her raven hair, the carefree smile upon her lips.

Now. The time was now.

He took a breath. "Princess, I.."

"Éomer?"

Lothíriel tilted her head quizzically. He licked lips gone suddenly straw-dry and began again. "Princess, Lothíriel, we have…" Suddenly something small and hard hit him in the back. He jerked in surprise and looked back across his shoulder. There was nothing there. Just petals on the flat grey stones and a stick or two. _Odd._ _And annoying._ But he shrugged off the interruption and roughly cleared his throat.

"My apologies. Lothíriel, I…"

A clatter of small projectiles showered him again. "What the?!" Éomer spun round, dropping Lothíriel's hand and searching for a source. He could see no one. No gardener or servant. No other family. Not even a giggling Alphros, but the hair on his forearm prickled, exactly as if they were being watched.

"What are those?" asked Lothíriel pointing past his feet where a handful of small brown oval seeds lay. A small smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. "Why they look like olive pits!"

Olives? The oddly salty fruit Imrahil had served the night before? "My lady, why would someone…?" he began, but just as he was about to ask about the purpose of such odd ammunition (and who would want to interrupt), Arwen's lady in waiting, Zenaida, slipped out from the shadow of the statue and bowed almost to the floor.

"Your Highness, Princess, a thousand hundred pardons. I would never dream to intrude but my lady, _Nigišiti _Arwen, is searching for you and the Princess Ivriniel. The Lady of Ithilien has some pains."

"Oh no!" Lothíriel's eyes darkened instantly in worry. "Is Éowyn not well? It is not yet near her time."

"It is not certain, Princess. They may be nothing, but they may be not. I believe your presence would put the _Nigišiti's_ mind at rest."

"Of course." Lothíriel bit her lip and turned to gaze up at him. "Éomer, will you excuse us?"

"By all means. You must go. Should I also come?" he added for though Éowyn's pregnancy had seemed as easy as a breeze, outside the usual complaints, his stomach twisted at the thought that something was truly wrong.

Every Rohir knew of Elfhild's fate and Théoden's everlasting grief. Joyously gaining a son but losing his beloved wife but moments afterward.

Lothíriel put a comforting hand upon his arm. "No. There is no need. It is early yet. Babes often disturb their mothers with false birthing pains."

Zenaida nodded. "A blessed sign of a strong son restless to be out and taking on the world."

"I shall be back," said Lothíriel firmly. "And will send a note sooner if there is any news."

With that kind thought she followed Zenaida's lead, leaving him deflated and more a little worried. Perhaps he should join them anyway? Be there for Faramir, although what good he could be beyond pacing in the hall? Aragorn at least had actually attended an actual birth. Or three, from all accounts.

Éomer was frowning at their retreating backs when the clatter came again.

A dozen olive pits flew from a nearby bush and bounced off his hip to roll across the stones.

"Tulkas' fist!"

Before he could think twice, Éomer leapt toward the green, reached in and snagged a tunic collar. First one, and then another Prince of Dol Amroth sprawled in an undignified heap of blue and silver-black.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Éomer demanded. "You were spying on us! On me," he added angrily, hand clenched where his hilt should be. "Is this a way to treat a trusted ally?"

Amrothos had the grace to look abashed. "We weren't exactly spying."

"No," added Erchirion as he climbed to his feet and left a shower of green behind. "We were interrupting you. For a reason."

Éomer looked from one rumpled prince to another. "Is this some kind of stupid joke? If so, I do not find it funny."

"Nay, it is very serious."

Amrothos frowned as his brother pulled him up. "You can't."

"Can't what?!"

"Propose."

"Of course I bloody can!" Éomer, in danger of truly losing his temper, stood and steamed and tried to find words that were not a litany of swearing. The nerve. Who were they to dictate what he could and could not do?

A haze of red was starting to fill his gaze but fortunately Imrahil arrived.

"Is there a problem here?" the Prince asked smoothly, frowning at his sons. "I heard voices raised that clearly were not in song."

Éomer crossed his arms across his chest, fighting the urge to put a fist through a tanned, narrow face. "Your sons were spying on a private moment with Lothíriel."

"Private?" Imrahil eyebrows shot up, looking distinctly unhappy to be thinking what he was thinking.

Éomer hastened to explain. "A conversation only." He kicked at the small pile of pits sitting offendingly on the gravel. "Their latest prank includes alternate cannonade."

If Imrahil was surprised to hear what his sons had done it didn't show. The stern glance that quelled many a Swan Knight turned upon his sons. "Captain, Lieutenant, what do you have to say for yourselves?"

Erchirion made a show of straightening his collar. "We had to stop him Father."

"Yes." Amrothos nodded vigorously. "He was going to propose!"

Éomer was taken aback_. How did they know?!_ And if they did, Béma's balls, why did they not have the decency to leave a man alone at the most important meeting of his life?!

Again he clenched his fists. "And what of it? Tis no business of yours but your sister's. Unless you seek to control her life. Or have objections to letting her make up her own mind."

Imrahil sighed heavily. "Nothing could be farther from the truth. My daughter's choice of husband is entirely her own, but I believe I see where the problem lies. You were just now going to propose to Lothiriel?"

"Yes. The lady has not actually been asked thanks to your sons, but I believe she would consider it." That her now grinning lunatic brothers would object to him specifically didn't merit thought. But then again, they didn't know about the trunkful of scented letters. "We have become friends these last eight months," he hastily explained. And more than just friends perhaps, judging by her delight at dancing in his arms. He flushed but continued on. "Should she agree, there will be a suitably generous Bride Price, of course. I am prepared to offer fine grey Mearas colts to enhance the bloodline of the Swan Knights' mounts." He glared pointedly at Amrothos and Erchirion. "To breed out any unwanted traits of temperament."

Imrahil's lips twitched but he succeeded in holding back a smile. "I see. Your forethought and offer do my daughter honour, but," he raised a hand, "there is something of a precedent. A test to first determine if you are acceptable to the lady."

_Acceptable?!_ "What sort of test,' he growled.

"A water test."

"A what?"

"A water test," repeated Imrahil. "A sail upon the bay together. A princess of Dol Amroth cannot wed a man with no stomach for the sea."

Sailing?! It was not something he had ever done, but if all he had to do was sit… "When can I do it?"

Imrahil thoughtfully rubbed at his chin. "Well not before this week's council meet. And I believe the week after she is with Queen Arwen. In Lothron there is the King's Coronation holiday and on Faramir's birthday we will all be at Emyn Arnen."

Béma's bollocks this was proving convolute. "What of the week between?" he asked, thinking Elfhelm would grumble if they tarried overlong.

"Nay," chimed in Erchirion.

"And why?"

Amrothos grinned. "She said something about sailing with Goran."

.

~~000~~~

.

"Brother will you help?"

Éomer's words had been heartfelt and plaintive and Aragorn had not the heart to resist. To Angband with official impartiality. He had clapped his sword brother on the shoulder, nodded once, and now stood stripped to his waist, the golden sand of Belfalas about his toes and salt water warmed braies clinging to his thighs, having demonstrated a more than serviceable dog paddle.

It wasn't catching on. The King of Rohan sputtered as he began to sink again. "Lie flat to the surface of the water," Aragorn urged. "Like a water snake."

That might not have been the best analogy. Éomer bolted up with a mouthful of water and seaweed in his hair. "There are water snakes?!"

"Not here," said Faramir, shaking his head so quickly that his long wet locks whipped out. "They have been gone as long as Edhelhond."

An outright fib from his Steward? Aragorn blinked in surprise and grinned. A most excellent turnabout! The last thing they needed was Éomer worrying about lay below the waves. "Flat like a leaf upon a pond. And don't hold your breath!" he urged, noting Éomer's red face as the man lay down in the rippling waves again.

Blessedly there was little wind and chop, yet even after a few awkward strokes, Éomer began to sink again.

"Blast!" Furiously he struggled to his feet. "What are you smiling at?!"

Aragorn hastily rearranged his face. "Nothing. We are brothers and this is a serious situation. My friend, I swore to help in anyway I could and I will."

Éomer shoved a dripping strand out of his eyes. "By rendition of an ally? Or two troublesome subjects?"

"Not for every Mearas in your herd. I need Imrahil to support my rebuilding plans."

"Is there not some way to get around them otherwise? If the idiots hadn't stopped me from proposing I wouldn't have to pass this fabled water test!"

"Fabled since last washing day," muttered Faramir, laying a sympathetic hand below his brother-in-law's elbow.

The three friends had hastily concocted a sound and cunning, albeit easy, solution to the problem. Éomer was to sail with Lothirel. Now. Before Goran arrived five days hence to ply his turn. When the idea had first been broached the young King had paled, exclaiming "I am Rider not a bloody merman!" with heat. But after a good deal of coaxing (and an entire cask of Hornburg Red) Éomer had acquiesced.

It was proving a somewhat irregular, if entertaining lesson. A small curious crowd, mercifully lacking Lothíriel or her brothers, had assembled on the shore. Éowyn and Arwen supervised. The two would periodically wander closer, wading into the gentle morning waves to cool Éowyn's swollen ankles. Or so they said. Halbarad's adage came to mind. 'Once is happenstance, thrice is enemy action.' Or in this instance, surveillance.

The King marveled at the Lady of Ithilien's newfound bravery. Faramir was of the opinion Théoden's line were all secretly half cat. Only with the greatest of delicate urging could he get Éowyn into shallows she didn't know. Yet here she was, opening wading in the sea and waving blithely at them all.

It seemed the view worth it. Their husbands' wet braies clung to every inch of skin.

"Éomer, I am surprised you never learned," he offered a tad unwisely, distracted by a kiss blown by his Evenstar.

"Have _you_ swum in the Snowbourne?"

Aragorn shivered at the recollection. "Several times. Long ago. When I was young and had less sense."

"My point exactly."

Faramir quickly broke in to defuse a building clash. "Do not worry. There are days yet to practice. Let us try again."

They did. Unfortunately Rohan's King swam like a stone. Vertically and down. Éomer was strong and agile but the movement was just too unfamiliar, especially when battered by the waves. Aragorn prayed he wouldn't be also seasick. After a good deal of creative coaxing and a firkin's worth of swallowed sea a small cheer went up.

Éomer at last managed a few feet or two.

"Excellent! After you go a dozen more you should try on your back a bit."

Eomer groaned. "Have you been in a boat?" asked Faramir, eyeing the small skiff they had perspicaciously pulled up on the beach.

"Nay. Why should I do that? A horse can go everywhere I need."

"Goran has captained them," Aragorn unhappily explained. "When he fled the bloody sands he went as far he could get. To Langstrand."

Éomer rolled his eyes. "I won't need to sail the thing."

"True. But you do need to be used to one enough to not get knocked overboard."

Faramir lead them to the shore and explained the parts of a basic boat in straightforward, if unfamiliar terms. He and Aragorn then flipped the little craft upright. "I have checked the wind charts at the Harbourmaster," the Steward noted. "In general this is a tolerable sennight to try. The winds are to calm in several days. You can practise until the council meeting and then take her out."

A sound and appropriately researched plan. All too soon thwarted by reality.

The first test sail with Éomer at the helm was accompanied by abjectly frustrated swearing.

"Why am I doing this again?" he asked the second time they dunked.

"Because you will be the happiest man alive when we sit, dry on Dol Amroth's terrace, and negotiate a Bride Price once again," Aragorn heaved the bobbing craft back upright in the shallows before it could begin to sink. "I think the trickiest thing will be deciding on a venue."

"Deciding?" Éomer frowned. "I assumed it to be Dol Amroth. Meduseld can be afterward. When she comes to settle in her new home."

"I am not sure Meduseld is big enough for the ceremony," admitted Faramir cautiously.

"Big enough?! It seats an entire eored!"

"For the cousins."

""There are more of them?!" Éomer looked appalled. "Are not Amrothos and Erchirion enough?"

"Quite." Faramir's mouth quirked. He pulled himself up and into the little boat and offered out a hand. "My mother had nine first cousins. They have eighteen children and three dozen grandchildren."

"And you know them all?!"

"Yes." Faramir seemed only slightly guilty at his friend's discomfiture. Éomer was drifting in the rising chop but moving with greater confidence. "You might need an archivist. Or two."

"Lothíriel can keep track of them for you," offered Aragorn, keeping close to their friend. "Imagine what it is like when they are immortal."

As one the men glanced shoreward. Arwen and Éowyn were giggling, having noticeably crept even deeper in the waves. Their skirts were soaked to below the knee. Arwen was holding Éowyn about the little that remained of her waist, unwilling to let her friend so much as slip. Yesterday's pains had mysteriously disappeared.

"Better you than me," Éomer said with feeling. At last he caught Faramir's hand and scrambled somewhat smoothly over the gunwale. Sopping, but determined, he sat back in the stern and took up the tiller once again.

"Shall we not head to shore?" asked Aragorn. Was it a trick of the sinking sun or was Éomer starting to turn green?

"No." The Rohir swallowed carefully, set his jaw and turned toward the wind. "I will practice as much as I can and leave nothing to ill chance. Her idiot brothers might get wind of our intentions and try to hamstring the boat."

_They wouldn't? Would they?_

_Surely not? _

Aragorn and Faramir exchanged a look.

Neither man would admit to being unconvinced.

.

* * *

As in _Land of Salt and Fire_ I have used Amharic as the model for the Haradi language. _Memari_ means knowledge and _Nigišiti=Queen. _

Thank you to all those who favourited and followed this month and to mistressGwen and Captspector to whose guest comments I cannot reply_. _Your lovely comments spur me. And I will not scar my readers by answering Altariel's question publicly_. _dm if you really want to know_ *_^_

If there are more than the usual typos and missing words this time, I have been on the road and not had a chance for proper beta'ing. Rest assured I will update when it has had a proper going over.


	4. Chapter 4

Before we start, I'd like to take a moment here to reply to gelfir's comment as they were logged in as a guest and I can't dm them back.

Regarding the political situation in this fic: the character of Goran and Haradrim politics shown here come from my story Captains and Pawns. Prior to Sauron's rise in Mordor again, my various, only loosely allied Haradrim tribes were not all evil or followers of His. Quite a few like Goran and his Uncle Najir, chief of the Qatanni tribe, stayed loyal to the Valar and Numenor, and did not adopt the ethos of the Black Numenoreans that spread about Umbar. In CP they actually approach Denethor about a formal alliance against the rise of the Red Serpent. Denethor, protectionist, chooses not to and Goran and some men of their Tribe vanish into the Haradwaith Desert to be guerrilla fighters, while Najir publically embraces the overwhelmingly powerful Red Serpent and his cult to avoid their women and children being slaughtered. He is the Southron who tries to cut Faramir down but holds his sword, lets Imrahil strike him down, horrified to find out that he has harmed an honourable man he knew. Both Boromir and Faramir urged their father to make the alliance but were rebuffed.

Najir's father and grandfather and their people were well known in Gondor and Dol Amroth and traded extensively with the latter, so, for me, Goran becoming Emperor blunts the anti-Haradrim sentiment a significant amount. While I have no doubt that there would be considerable sentiment against the Haradrim post the Ring War, I picture Aragorn as a shrewd ruler who understood the benefit of well-monitored olive branches to a lasting peace. I am guided in this principally by three points: Gandalf saying, "Yet there are other men and other lives, and time still to be. And for me, I pity even his slaves.'; Faramir saying of the dead Southron in Ithilien in the movie (Sam's words in the book): "You wonder what his name is. Where he came from. And if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home? And if he'd not rather have stayed there, at peace"; and lastly JRR himself, who, in a letter to his son at the end of the World War 2, advocated mercy and tolerance to the defeated German people. But not Hitler's administration. Many Germans suffered as they fled the brutal takeover of East Germany by communist Russia.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and clear with a stiff east wind that snapped the Swan pennants on the palace and set the ships to rocking in the harbour. It was market day. The lower wynds and closes of the town were thronged with eager folk perusing great mounds of green, fresh bounty. Asparagus. Leeks. Artichokes. And chamomile; just picked, with the morning dew still cool upon the blooms, like healing tears upon a myriad tiny faces.

Rohan's king had come to do _something_ to help his little sister. Beyond wearing a hole in the floorboards as her husband had begun to do.

"Are you sure this herb will help?" asked Éomer, following Lothíriel's slim, blue-clad figure as she expertly wended her way past stall after stall, slipping through the jostling throng with ease, ignoring the cajoling of traders hawking a field's worth of strongly scented leaves.

None of them were the particular tonic that they sought. A little of his worry must have bled into his tone for she stopped abruptly to look up at him, squinting a little into the sun.

"Oh yes. Even dried. That is why we need so much. False pains can come in spurts or be constant from now until the end. Aunt Rini will send her tonic and its recipe home with them."

_Éowyn could be miserable for more four weeks!_ _Béma_. Admittedly, most of what Éomer knew of birthing came from tending dams in foal but he most definitely did not like the sound of that! Although Aragorn, Ivriniel and the palace's midwife had been quick to reassure them all there was no sign of trouble, it appeared false labour hurt. A lot.

He shuddered to think of what real birthing brought if this tested a shieldmaiden lauded for her bravery. "All of us will be grateful."

"It is hard to watch one you love in pain," murmured Lothíriel. Her eyes for a moment grew mist-dark and softly sad. She too had lost her mother young, though to a wasting disease that had been far less swift and merciful than his mother's own. It made his heart twist and long to hold her close.

"Aye. _Gea_." he managed, railing inside at Gondorian mores that made it entirely impossible to embrace in public. A simple hug of comfort would never lead an honourable, unwed Rohir to behave improperly. But then, settling for a polite hand at her elbow whilst the other held back a riotus mass of hanging mint, he had to admit their proximity was doing _something_ to him.

Again. Admiration and friendliness (and that nagging unsettledness) were now joined by a protective tenderness that made him want to growl at any stranger who came to close. The longing to keep being close had intensified. _Béma_, she was tiny thing. Small enough to fit beneath his arm; would tuck right in below his shoulder up against his chest, and _that _thought, mingled with the scent of jasmine from her hair, made him practically dizzy.

In ways of which her Aunt Ivriniel most certainly would not approve.

They moved on. Éomer forced himself to focus on the view ahead and eventually they found the merchant that they sought, haggled on the price with what appeared the correct amount of feigned insult, and returned to the palace laden down with masses of the small cheery flowers.

Faramir looked relieved, Éowyn more than a little wanly grateful, and Aragorn simply firmly patient. He literally shoo'd them out from under foot, along with the half of the palace populace hovering sympathetically outside the Lady of Ithlien's door.

"We shall see you at evening meal," he said and so Éomer followed Lothíriel back out to the seaward terrace. It was blessedly empty of council folk for Imrahil had taken the extraneous Kings and Lords on a tour of the fighting fleet.

Éomer sighed happily. For the moment, there was nothing that either of them need do.

And the younger Princes of Dol Amroth would be occupied.

For hours.

He cleared his throat and took the plunge.

"Lothíriel, would you like go for a sail?"

"A sail?" The request was evidently a surprise for she looked bemused, as if he had suggested they ride dragon-back to Orodruin or mount a donkey to tour Umbar.

"Yes, now." Éomer eyed the weather. Away to the east above the blue-green shallow sea a few darker clouds tumbled in the blue. A sufficiently comforting long way off to not raise alarm and the waves were only a little higher than the day before. "You need to put me to the test."

Lothíriel's brow furrowed hard. "What test?"

"The Water Test."

That brought no more enlightenment. Her nose crinkled adorably in confusion. "Éomer-King, what are you talking about?"

"Are you not going sailing with the Emperor next week?" he queried.

"Yes," she nodded, "I am taking Goran toward Lond Daer. He wished to see the sea stacks closer."

Count on the Haradim to use a ruse. He, in contrast, would be more up front about his plans. When he could spit them out. "That is a convenient excuse to cover his true purpose," Éomer explained, "He wishes to take the Water Test so that afterward he can propose."

Lothiriel's hands fell to her hips. "Hardly," she scoffed. "My lord you are speaking in riddles and it is becoming most irritating. What do you mean? What is this test? And where were you yesterday? I looked for you all afternoon."

Éomer could not help it, he broke into a grin. She was irritated with him. He was irritated with her brothers, her attention to the Haradim, and the whole messy situation.

That settled it. Mayhap Elfhelm was right. They were actually in love! A happy fizzing sparkled through his chest, bringing with it a new and deeper set of worries. Would she accept his suit? Would she choose to leave her sea home for the endless rolling wold? Béma, he hoped so, for he could imagine no other at his side as Queen. Next to Lothíriel any other woman would be… flat. Barely acceptable. Barely endurable, and though it might be a risk, it was high time for him to be forward with his heart.

"I was at the southern cove with Aragorn and Faramir. I admit it might be cheating but they thought it crucial that I learn to swim."

"Swim?"

Éomer flushed, mesmerized as a gust of wind whipped dark strands about her face. "So I can formally ask for your hand. I tried to the night before last but your blasted brothers interfered. They say I must pass this test. Go sailing with you first. I'd like to do it now, before the council starts."

"You were going to propose?" Lothíriel repeated faintly. A pretty blush crept up her neck and cheeks. She caught at the dark lock that threatened to fly away, fingers just faintly trembling. "I… I.. hoped that it had been so, but then Zenaida came… "

_She hoped?_ A phalanx of butterflies took flight in his chest. They sent hope and joy and an excited exhilaration buzzing through his skin. "I want to do this right," he said, catching her fingers in his own. They looked small and light, like a bird's hollow bones, but he knew how very strong they were. "Your father insisted I do the Water Test. If Goran plans to also, I wish to be the one to ask you first. I understand you might consider both of us suitable, but..."

Lothíriel stopped him with a quick shake of her head. "No. I haven't considered Goran at all. I know Father wishes to cement their trade agreement. It would be rude of me to brush his attentions off. And.." she paused so long Éomer felt like he might explode, "Erchirion did mention something about Aunt Finduilas' famous terrorizing of Uncle Denethor." Lothíriel looked down, then up, biting her lip uncertainly, as if overwhelmed by all he said. "You wanted to propose? So much that you've learned to swim?"

He nodded quickly. ""Yes, I did, although nothing very elaborate. Just the dog paddle. Enough to keep myself afloat in rougher seas." _Barely_, he thought, clasping her fingers tighter and ignoring the slightly darker clouds, the sudden roaring in his ears. Time was short and he might not get another chance. "We have a few free candlemarks this day. Can we go? Now?"

"Now?" she murmured a little dazedly.

"Yes." Éomer swallowed hard, thankful for the evil looking, sharp-smelling root Aragorn had insisted he put in his pack. Below the solidity of the wall, the waves were now capped in white. "I will not lose you to anyone."

Arwen's words came back then, from when he had stood and shivered on the shore, so soaked his skin looked like a prune. _Rationality is a ridiculous strategy. Only abandon opens the door. _

He tried and failed to put all of his suddenly tumbling heart into words. "Lothíriel, I want this more than anything. You as my Queen. My wife. Because I want to see you smiling with the dawn. Racing across the wold ahorse. Laughing in the great hearth's firelight. I irritate you and you, me. We are perfect for each other."

"We are?" She laughed gaily but did not demur. "Who says it? Meduseld's noted bards?"

"Nay. The most happily married man I know."

.

~~~000~~~

.

Hours later Éomer did not regret the rip in his shirt from the nail on the bottom of the skiff. He did not regret the sunburn on his neck or the bruise from a quickly swinging boom. They were all honourable wounds; tactile proof of his valiant efforts to stay (mostly) out of Lothíriel's way as she tacked and jibed, took them flying south, past the sheltered bays and sandy coves to where the cliffs rose up. Seemed to climb straight from the water to the sky's blue vault.

The Belfalas coast was beautiful. Difficult for a man of the plains to admit, but it was so. The day had been a delight. Azure sea and miles of jewel-like green atop the cliffs' pale weathered grey. Flying fish that made him laugh out-loud and darting schools of silver minnows. Graceful brigades of white as Dol Amroth's swans soared overhead.

However much he thrilled to each new discovery it was the company that Éomer cherished the most. It had been bliss to sit so very close; shoulder to shoulder and almost cheek to cheek; Lothíriel sharing stories of the sea and also how to hold the 'sheet'.

The rising wind at first had not been a bother- helpful even-in that no one would question the state of her hair or his. Both braids were mussed: spectacularly so, more from the breeze than from oblivion while they kissed, but none would be the wiser. Her red lips could be excused as the cost of teaching him to trim, biting them uncertainly each time he overtightened and sent them lurching hard. His own—well, perhaps there would be no fooling anyone (he _had_ felt nearly mad at the warmth of her breech-clad thigh as she brushed by) but Lothíriel made it clear she did not care.

The stolen kisses were her idea.

(The very first had been so thrilling and unassumed he'd nearly let the tiller go.)

Sadly now that it was time to turn for home, head back to the port and official chaperoning, it appeared that they were paying for their happy interlude.

In heavy chop and suddenly erratic winds, Éomer did regret a thing or two. The dark Belfalas brandy Lothíriel had expertly purloined. And the honeycakes. And the punt of tiny early strawberries.

'At least I am not lashed to the mast!' he thought, miserably seasick and trying to wedge his bulk into his tiny refuge in the bow. That he was upright was little comfort-all the sustenance had long been 'offered' to the sea.

"How much farther?" he called, raising his voice to be heard above the snapping of the sail.

Lothíriel lifted a hand to scan the coast. The scattered cloud that had hung innocently sheep-like now clustered together like the Hornburg's brooding wall. How she could see through the dark lowering mass he didn't know.

The result was clearly far from favourable. Lothiriel frowned. "A ways."

Éomer groaned. The white-capped waves that looked innocent from on land were warg-like when one was actually in a boat. He'd chewed the tongue-blistering, mouth-burning antidote to no effect and each time they tacked around nearer to the shore the little boat rocked with a vengeance. Green did not begin to describe the misery he felt. Fangorn might encompass it. Or Druadan. Or spider-saddled Mirkwood. But not Ithilien. That was a too gentle a shade for this.

"Sing," called Lothíriel, one eye on the rapidly gaining cliffs. If they stayed too far offshore, the gusts that roared over the open headlands would sweep them out; too close and they might wreck upon the rocks. "It will take your mind off it."

He highly doubted it. "Lady, I am a Rider not a minstrel! I do not sing and dance."

She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Oh yes you do! I have seen it. I will brook no protest for you actually dance rather well. And Éowyn has a lovely voice."

"Don't remind me!" Dog's bollocks the last thing he wanted to think of right then was his dear, besotted sister and her newly wedded warbling. Had that not been the start of his rash decision making? Such as insisting on sailing when the storm-born wind hailed from the east? Blessed Lord of Air. If only the wind would make up its mind. It careened wildly; flipping direction as if wizard–called and the boat gave another sickening lurch.

_Béma_. Perhaps it was worth a try.

"My apologies if this isn't suitable!" He launched into the only ditty he could remember: an entirely unchaste drinking song accounting a Rider's prowess on the battlefield and his efforts with his 'shaft'. Did Lothíriel know '_pintel_'? Or '_bearm_; or '_sard_'? Possibly not, given his Sindarin was far better than her Rohirric, and so he sang, loud and unflinching, and entirely on key until the first of the fat raindrops hit.

"Bugger."

"Exactly." Lothíriel, with feeling, uttered a word he didn't know but needn't have translated. The tone told all. They were in for a world more trouble and discomfort but it mattered not.

There was no choice but to hang on and get there.

He gripped the gunwale tighter and pulled up the collar of his shirt. It wasn't helping. The now steady rain was dripping down his back and off his nose, soaking his shirt until it clung limply to his chest. On patrol he'd simply grit his teeth and carry on. Here there was nothing to take his mind away.

_Béma_, this was all his fault for rushing them but it would be worth it come the end.

If he could win her hand.

He tried to yell this positive perspective into the rising wind, but a sudden gust took half his words away. At first he assumed she hadn't heard them but then Lothíriel angrily shook rain-plastered locks out of her eyes. "'Chiron!" She gripped the tiller tighter with both hands. "I'll have his guts for wedding garters. And Father's. They both knew we had nothing formal for a Bride Price as you do. Their manly pride was pricked!"

All this for Gondorian pride?! Forget guts, he'd have her brothers' balls for target practise. And his brother-in-law's for needlessly amping up the competition. Éomer miserably clamped his lips together as another wave of nausea passed through. Whatever the original impetus this was proving a far more arduous test than carrying one slim shieldmaiden over benignly still obstacles on a warm and wind free day.

"I hope the seas calm down!" he yelled, closing his eyes as another wave breached across the bow. "I just wish there was something we could do about it!"

A red-gold blush literally flew up to Lothíriel's wet brow. She turned to hide her face, pretending to be searching the following sea, but he knew that look. Had experienced it many times last summer when Éowyn had caught Faramir shirtless after sword-practice.

Her thoughts had taken an entirely embarrassing turn.

"Lothíriel, what else calms the winds?"

She blushed harder, shook her head, lips quirking at the ridiculousness of their situation. He, she surely knew, was as stubborn as his sibling; would not relent until she admitted to her candid thoughts.

An impass. There were only so many ways she could hide her face in a little boat, especially when, as skipper, she dared not slacken the tiller for an instant.

Lothíriel took a breath and pulled the shaft hard over, sent Éomer sliding with alacrity below the mast. They were on a new but unfortunately no more steady tack. "Swiving," she called, at last, face flaming, dark hair streaming out in the wind. "Swiving in a boat is said to calm the seas. It is one way Uinen, who protects us all, convinces her love Ossë to calm his rage; to gentle the foaming waves."

_Swiving? With Lothíriel? In a boat?!_

Éomer, equal parts seasick and soaked, brains more than little scrambled by the alluring image they now held, opened his mouth and blurted out the very next thing that came into his head:

"_Béma_, you are welcome to come here and try!"

Lothíriel threw back her head and laughed. The sound was gay and free, and entirely unfettered, joyously giving in to the absurdity of their plight, and as she did, the last strands of her braid flew loose. Raven stark against pale skin and deep blue sea, it reminded him of the Snowbourn under moonlight.

Gods, but she was magnificent.

He had just enough time to wonder, fleetingly, if that answer meant that he wasn't losing the contest, when a roll of thunder pealed and the sky truly opened up. The downpour raked the dinghy's salt-weathered wood and gurgled in the ruts. It pounded, painfully; slapping down in sheets that stung his eyes and ran like Irensaga's waterfall down his back.

_Tulkas' Rod_. It was utterly unpleasant but also, oddly, wild and exciting. Just the two of them against the elements. Working in tandem. Or sitting in his case, keeping out of the way until instructed to make a move. How could Lothíriel see to steer? The rain blurred the coast and sea into a solid wall of grey.

"Had we not better find a place to berth?"

Evidently he had read Lothíriel's mind, for now she was frowning toward land, squinting to make out the distance through the insistent spray. "There!" she shouted, pointing excitedly to a bare smudge of pale sand below a looming fence of rock.

_Really?_ It might be possible and she certainly had the nerve. On its foreshore there were no large blocks splitting the waves asunder.

They turned as close as possible into the wind, gaining distance until the tide and current helped take them in, closer and closer until the little skiff was stuck, grounded on a little bar of sand. Éomer, not bothering with the oars, jumped out into the weed-choked surf and found his footing, hauled with all his might, nearly cheering as the boat lurched forward to come to rest, nose up, on wet, hard beach.

"We can't leave her here with the tide." Lothíriel stepped nimbly out and motioned for him to take a side again. Together they heaved and groaned, pulled until their arms felt numb, dragging the boat inland above a line of scattered pearly, broken shells.

Relief. When they had lashed down the sail, Éomer searched their little refuge. It was empty but for shrubs and bracken and coarse sand—nothing to shelter in from the rain. Lothíriel pulled out an oilcloth wrapped kit of firesteel and stone to start a fire but the driftwood would not light. It was too quickly doused-who knew how long the rain would last and they could embark again? They were wet and even in the headland's lee the wind gusts swept down and soon set them both to shivering.

"Can we not shelter below the boat?" asked Éomer eyeing the little craft's barnacle-studded bottom when Lothíriel, with another elaborate curse, gave up on her firecraft. "At least it will block the wind."

"Excellent idea!"

With yet more concerted effort they took down the mast and flipped the boat upside down, rested it on stem and stern. Lothíriel scrambled underneath and Éomer followed; the space was small, they were shoulder to shoulder once again, pressed close to keep out of the wind that mercilessly dove below the boat's arched sides.

They were, if not dry, at least not buffeted. Lothíriel reached to pass him the water bladder and hunk of only slightly salty honeycake. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yes!" Oddly, he found he did. Without the land rolling like a wildly bucking horse his stomach no longer cramped and even grumbled hopefully at the sight of food. He took a cautious bite. The moist sticky sweetness no longer threatened to come back up.

"Best I've ever had."

Lothíriel chuckled. "Hardly."

"It is. In this very second it tastes like Hilde's best Yulekaga."

"Yule what?"

"Yu-le-ka-ga," he explained. "A special fruit bread for the winter solstice. You'll love it." _When you have Yule in Edoras_.

He stopped the words from tumbling out, worried that somehow they would jinx their happy solitude.

Overhead the rain drummed relentlessly on their makeshift roof, its beat only slightly slower than his pounding heart. Below, the press of her hip on his was maddening. "How long might this storm last?"

"A candlemark. It wasn't that strong and there were already breaks above."

_Not that strong_? Éomer shuddered at the thought of worse, but then perhaps in a much bigger boat it might be easier. He shifted to stop a long narrow rasor clam from digging into his backside and lifted his arm above his head, gently drapped it around Lothíriel's shoulders to pull her a little close.

She was smiling and still shivering. Delicately. He willed some of his warmth to carry through.

"Lothíriel, may I ask you a question?" he ventured, after a drowsy moment more.

"Of course."

"Did I pass?"

"Considering the contest is a fiction?"

"No, seriously."

She turned below his arm and arched a brow. "What do you think?"

He pondered solemnly for a moment. His salt soaked clothes were stiff. A graze he didn't know he'd made stung on his cheek and his shirt smelt more than faintly off. He might not look or feel his best, but there was no doubting he'd given the day his all.

"_Gea_. Despite the discomfort, I enjoyed the speed," he admitted, surprised to find it true. He might never long for the experience like Legolas, but he wouldn't embarrass himself before her relatives.

Well then.

He pulled from his tunic the small nosegay of blooms he had gathered on his reconnoitre. Purple and fuchsia little cones of cyclamen. Pink wild rose and white sea thrift. And something that looked like a giant deep blue thistle.

It reminded him of the wide fields of home where grasses reached to touch the endless sky.

"I have no gift to offer, so these will have to do. Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil and Leylin," he said, "would you wed with me, Éomer, son of Eomund and Théodwyn?"

"Oh, Éomer they are simply perfect," she smiled through happy tears, fingers reaching to caress his wounded cheek. "_Gea_. Yes!"

Their kiss, when it came, was salty and so sweet.

.

~~~000~~~

.

_Epilogue: August, 3021_

_._

It was a beautiful ceremony.

The bride looked radiant in a gown of Dol Amroth blue and silver; the groom gallantly handsome in rich wine brocade. The King joined the adorably distracted couple with ringing words of solemn grace from Numenor and the Éothéod. The ruling Princes of Ithilien and Dol Amroth both cried. The newest prince of Ithilien did not: Elboron, a ridiculously easy baby, slept placidly through his first official appearance ensconced on the White Lady's lap.

All the wedding party had been a trifle nervous until Imrahil noted, loudly and pointedly, that he had threatened his younger sons with banishment should _anything_ untoward occur.

This did not include the good natured ribbing that inevitably emerged. The King's Éored feted the new Queen's fertility loudly and mostly in good tune. The Swan Knights, not to be outdone, fell to their clanking knees and sang of loooong sea voyages. The Bride Price, which had thankfully included many cases of foamy, hoppy beer from the Mark (and two prized grey Mearas), was substantially consumed.

From the giddy joy that accompanied every kiss, the newlyweds were unlikely to dance until the dawn, but Aphros, who was wound like a top on sugar and the excitement of no bedtime, just might.

After the speeches and groan-inducing mountains of food, the Captain of the _Westwind _stood beside the terrace doors and took another pull of his tankard, musing privately that new 'old' traditions certainly had their place.

Éomer had sent wildflowers to Lothíriel's room that very morn and Erchirion, may or may not have sneaked a peek at the card. _'Thank you for the ride of a lifetime. After tonight can we try your trick?_' Well, well, well. His little sister was far more educated in Belfalas tradition than he or Rothos or Elphir knew; but then what could one reasonably expect with three brothers who were, ahem, older and wiser, to copy from? At least the phrasing suggested they hadn't tried it _yet_. The pair's excuses when they belatedly appeared in the palace hall bedraggled and exhausted had looked reasonable enough.

There was no mimicking that particular shade of green.

Erchirion was just considering asking his Aunt Ivriniel to dance when a tower of brown and gold appeared.

"Not aggrieved to lose out on the match?" he asked equably of Harad's Emperor. The man had curiously spent much of the night in conference with Gondor's unusually boisterous Queen. He meant to find out why.

Goran smoothed down his immaculately smooth mustache. "How so, Captain?"

"Your pride isn't irked a bit to lose out to Rohan? To have missed an opportunity to wed the most beautiful and accomplished princess in Middle-Earth?"

"Not at all." The Haradrim paused to take a sip of his excellent frothy wine. "I had no intention of taking another woman to wife. One is sufficient for me right now. And Lothíriel is such a prize that she deserves to be first in someone's heart."

_First in someone's…_ Erchirion's mouth gaped open like a fish. "No intention? But you danced six times in one night?! You've been to every gathering since Yule?! You were going to take her sailing."

Goran chuckled low. "As much as I admire your King Elessar, it is your Queen who is most cunning." His dark eyes danced. "The placid surface of a mirror pool indeed hides many skills. Gondor and Rohan are now tied doubly through the surest bonds of all. True love." The Emperor bowed so smoothly that not a drop of wine was lost. "May the Wind Lord bless their union."

With that hallowed invocation he glided silently away, leaving the young prince staring in abject shock.

_Why… that…that meant… Zenaida! _

Erchirion stalked toward the dining tables, stopped long enough to throw back a goblet of amber fire adroitly offered by an observant servant. It burned all the way down to his stomach. And chased away the more insulting words in danger of capturing his tongue.

By the time he found the minx in question there was hardly anything worth saying left. "Lady… you.. you…!"

Zenaida stiffened but then gave a quiet sigh. Gracefully, she inclined her dark head by way of apology to her seat mate and rose. Every inch of her elegant shape was draped in clinging ochre silk, almost—almost- more alluringly curvaceous than her perfectly arched brows.

They were raised in a private amusement that clearly she would keep entirely to herself.

Erchirion fought down a suddenly overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms.

"My Lord!" Zenaida smiled, "You've won! Congratulations! How simply lucky you have been. I do hope that you will now honour our honest wager."

_Honest wager_. He snorted almost rudely. The conniving creature had known of Arwen's plans all along, had taken unfair advantage of him. He began to call her out, but then, looking down on the object of his fury, all dark-eyed, beguiling beauty and glittering intelligence, Erchirion paused, wondering did he mind so very much?

He had matched wits with someone who also loved to tease and lost. Someone quite prepared to risk all again for the simple lure of the chase. The thought was quite—unsettlingly thrilling.

He roughly cleared his throat and finally found his tongue. "My lady, yes, my sister and I have been blessed by Lorien's own luck. She has won the man of her heart and I have won the bet. As we agreed, I shall now grant you one favour." A dark brow of his own quirked up. "But only one."

For a fleeting moment, innocent ebon eyes widened in relief. Zenaida, it appeared, was far, far from unaffected too. Erchirion bowed and did her a courtesy learned from two decades of watching his father charm the world. "Ask away."

The lady curtsyed flawlessly back and as she rose in a rustle of fine silk, looked up from underneath lashes as long as the desert night.

"Captain, will you show me how to calm the waves?"

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There, that's done! Yay, another wip, actually finished! And only twice the originally planned length. Eep.

Thank you all so very very much for commenting and favouriting and following. It gives me life.

For the definition of _pintel_ and _swive_: see Lost in Translation-grin. For sailing issues, I will pass on your queries to Mr. Sian. He patiently spent an hour discussing medieval rigging and problems thereto. We finally settled on less detail.

And of course, huge thanks and kudos to Annafan and Wheelrider and ladies of the Garden.


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